


Illuminans Occultus

by CheshirePoet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Dash of Merlin, Bromance, Case Fic, Crossover, Epic Friendship, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Potter!Lock, Potterlock, Rape Aftermath, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-06 21:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 72,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18859180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshirePoet/pseuds/CheshirePoet
Summary: It’s been several years since Sherlock’s return from hunting Moriarty’s web, and though his heart has begun to thaw and he’s made strides in his personal growth—errr...excruciatingly slow, minutely small baby steps, rather—he still suffers debilitating bouts of disconsolate torpor. A particularly humid summer leaves him in just such a mood as the criminals of London all seem to have gone on holiday to escape the hellish heat. As John reaches his final straw in suffering through Sherlock’s boredom, an unexpected reprieve is found by none other than Mycroft Holmes. With a cryptic message for Sherlock, he sets them on a journey towards discovering arcane wonders with Lestrade in-tow. Previous paradigms shattered, the trio embark on an adventure that will forever change their view of the world, and with the help of new allies to aide them on their quest, they find unexpected ties to an old enemy that will challenge and threaten everyone involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
> ############
> 
> Authors Note: Thank you for taking the time to read my very first fanfiction! I felt inspired to write my own after reading through so many fabulous stories and finding my own ideas spinning around my head, screaming to be left out. I’ve written this story to quiet that turbulence in my mind, and as such, I don’t expect anyone else to like it haha. Original characters are not always popular with readers, understandably, yet I felt the creation of one was paramount to properly support my story.
> 
> For all the Johnlock shippers out there, I’m sorry. I’m one myself, and while I debated for a while in directing towards that ship, the story kept unraveling in my mind elsewhere. I do hope that I’ve portrayed their relationship/friendship meaningfully, however, for I feel that their connection is vitally important and impactful to them.
> 
> As for timelines...things have been skewed a bit. I’ve purposely left things ambiguous enough where Seasons 3&4 of Sherlock may or may not have happened...it’s up to the reader to decide whether they want to include them or not. Either way should relatively work, though one obvious exception is the exclusion of Rosamund, for there was no easy way to include a baby/young child into the story I wanted to tell.
> 
> Story is already finished—I’ll be posting chapters every few days.
> 
> Finally, I’m from the States, so I apologize if my Britishisms aren’t quite on point. I did my best.

  


#### 221B

 

The day was still young, not quite midday, yet the tension between the two occupants of a 2nd story flat in the centre of London was more stifling than the humid air outside. A heat wave had descended upon the city earlier that summer month that made the air feel as thick as jelly. It was likely this repugnant reason that the criminal class had seemingly collectively called a temporary truce against the New Scotland Yard, for not even a petty crime of pickpocketing had occurred within the past few weeks. As such, while many of Scotland Yard’s finest were thoroughly enjoying the breather and scrambling around to go on holiday during the lull in work, a particular (rather, the _World’s Only_ ) Consulting Detective was beside himself with unyielding ennui. His flatmate, the Good Doctor, formerly Captain, was reaching his wit’s end, having suffered through day after day with the consulting detective’s puerile strops and incessant bemoaning of “Bored!” and “Dull!” It was after the fifteenth utterance of said phrases that very morning that the good doctor finally snapped. 

  


“Oh for the love of...” John Watson stopped himself, folding his right arm across his chest and perching his left arm upon it in order to support his head while he pinched the bridge of his nose. He attempted to take a deep, calming breath to collect himself before he snapped and threw the kettle at his vexatious flatmate. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Upon release of the exhale he continued, “For someone who detests repetition, you sure sound like a parrot. That is the _fifteenth_ time today you’ve squawked those words.”

  


Sherlock, who had been draped upon the sofa, limbs askew like a Victorian maiden befallen a fainting fit, merely lifted his arm away from covering his face to pierce John with the intensity of his glare while he scathingly replied, “I do not _squawk._ Honestly, John, how your plebeian mind can possibly...”

  


“FIFTEENTH TIME!” John interjected before Sherlock could finish whatever cutting remark he was about to spew forth, slamming down the kettle he had just finally picked up. His breath heaved through his chest while both men stared the other down. So engrossed were they in their spat that the flatmates hadn’t even noticed the opening of the front door, nor the careful cadence of the visitor’s ascent up the stairs, accompanied with a gentle thud upon every other step.

  


Whatever biting retort Sherlock was about to assail John with as he opened his mouth was interrupted, yet again, by a haughty voice that asserted, “My, my, brother dear, trouble in paradise?”

  


Mycroft stood in the opening of the doorway, perfectly poised with both hands resting atop the handle of his umbrella perched in front of him. John’s attention whipped towards him, while Sherlock let out a bedraggled moan, exclaiming, “Go away, Mycroft! You’re not welcome here.”

  


John, however, took three strides towards the elder brother and with an air of desperation said, “Mycroft; for the love of Queen and Country, **please** tell us you have a case for Sherlock or so help me, I’m liable to strangle your brother. I haven’t seen him this badly in one of his dark moods in years and he’s driving me round the bend!”

  


Sherlock scoffed, and in one fluid movement that belied the previous disarray of his long, lanky limbs, he situated himself in an artful arrangement upon the sofa; seated with one foot on the floor, the other leg folded across at the ankle upon his knee, arms steepled under his chin. “Of course he doesn’t have a case, there’s no case file tucked in his arms, no memory stick in his pocket, his posture is decidedly too lax for there to be any pressing concerns; furthermore, he paid a visit to the bakery down the street before his stop here, indulging in one—no—two of their blueberry scones, which although catastrophic towards his diet, isn’t one of his comfort foods he’s so fond of indulging in when under duress. Really, John, is your frustration so palpable as to obscure the obvious observations? However do you maintain your work at the clinic if you misread the blatant details for a proper diagnosis?” He returned his attention to his brother and snidely continued, “That does beg the question as to why _are_ you here, Mycroft? Surely you have better things to do than waste my time with your obtrusive presence.”

  


Mycroft merely raised a single eyebrow at the end of the tirade while John tried to loosen his clenched jaw, unmindful of his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Eyes narrowing at Sherlock, he smirked with the knowledge of the one thing he could do to truly give Sherlock his comeuppance, turning back to Mycroft and saying with overt politeness, “Please come in and make yourself comfortable, Mycroft; why don’t I make you a cup of tea?”

  


The _minor_ British Government Official’s lip quirked upward on one end in a rare display of bemusement while he replied, “Indeed. Spot of milk and one sugar, if you please.”

  


John gave a quick nod and returned towards the kitchen to set about making tea for himself and Mycroft— _let Sherlock make his own, for once._ At the same time, a growl of protest escaped from Sherlock as he snapped himself up off the couch towards the corner of the room to pick up his beloved violin. If he was to be subjected to a torturous session with his insufferable brother, the least he could do was even the battlefield, perhaps even shorten the excursion, by playing the string of discordant tones most grating to the elder Holmes.

  


Sighing softly, Mycroft proceeded to walk forward and sit upon the leather chair so often occupied by the consulting detective and said, “Come now, brother, can’t I merely pay a social visit to inquire into your welfare?”

  


With an exaggerated eye roll Sherlock replied, “Ah yes, for you’ve always been a shining beacon of altruistic caring. Don’t patronize me, Mycroft, your motives are never benevolently unbounded.” He moved with violin in-hand to collapse back into the cushions of the sofa, all-the-while harshly plucking cacophonous notes from the instrument.

  


“Dear brother, you wound me; and sarcasm doesn’t become you,” came Mycroft’s reply. He brushed away a fleck of dust from his sleeve. “I am always concerned with your wellbeing, as it were.”

  


Sherlock let out a derisive snort at that, while John returned to the sitting room, two teacups in hand. He handed one of the cups to Mycroft and proceeded to sip from his own as he sat in his worn, yet cozy chair. Mycroft gave a slight nod of thanks, while Sherlock turned his head stiffly to face John, cocked an eyebrow looking back-and-forth between the two cups of tea before settling on John’s eyes, and said, “Et tu, Bruté?”

  


John remained silent, met Sherlock’s enquiring gaze, tilted his head to the side and lifted his cup in a mock display of _‘cheers.’_ Sherlock scowled and ripped a particularly screeching noise from the unfortunate violin before petulantly turning his face away to look out towards the window.

  


“As amusing as this domestic display of bickering is, I was rather hoping you would be in a more amenable mood, brother mine. I know all-too-well how much of a quandary you are left in without The Work to occupy yourself with, and thought I could good-naturedly offer you a suggestion to help keep you and your mind engaged.” Mycroft took a sip of his tea and awaited Sherlock’s retort. Verbal sparring was always a requisite between the brothers; to forgo the volley would only ensure Sherlock’s refusal to listen, but by following familial protocol, he knew Sherlock would remain partly interested despite himself, allowing Mycroft to get to the crux of what he was there to say.

  


Still looking out the window, Sherlock said, “What could you _possibly_ offer that I would find of interest? Are you really too lazy to do your own legwork? Don’t you have minions to do your bidding for you? If your suggestion is how to eat healthy, I’m rather afraid you’ve missed the mark on that one yourself, dear brother…you’ve put on nearly four pounds since your last visit. Perhaps _you_ should take on more legwork; the exercise would do you good.”

  


Mycroft refrained from taking the bait from his brother that commenting on his weight usually provoked. Instead he continued to stare blandly at the younger Holmes, looking for the minute tell that would belie his interest and allow him the opportunity for transparency—well, as transparent as the two brothers ever got—and there it was…the slightest twitch of Sherlock’s head, angling back incrementally towards Mycroft. Though feeling smug at the sight of the tell, Mycroft kept from letting the satisfaction seep into his next words as he carefully said, “On the contrary, little brother; I’ve heard good reviews of the gentlemen’s club _‘Ékleipsi’_ and thought you may be interested in paying it a visit. The good doctor here and perhaps the detective inspector you work so well with might even enjoy accompanying you for a ‘boys’ night out,’ as it were. I believe you may find the experience, _illuminating,_ ” he gently stressed the last word with the slightest inflection.

  


An indelicate snort resounded from John as he tried and failed to hold in a giggle, but Sherlock’s head snapped immediately towards Mycroft and he leveled him with his penetrating gaze, eyes both calculating and staggered. Mycroft steadily held his brother’s stare, while John finally gave voice to his mirth, unable to repress the amusement any longer.

  


“Oh that’s a good one, Mycroft,” he said in between chuckles, “regardless of how your brother feels about it, your visit was worth it just to hear you say that. I’ll get _months_ of enjoyment thinking back on this conversation and imagining Sherlock in a strip club.” More giggles escaped as he wiped the beginning tears from the corner of his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. He let out a little sigh as the last of his laughs died down, only to realize that the brothers were still locked in a silent stare down. Looking back-and-forth between the two, though, he noticed the lack of the normal antagonism behind their gazes at each other. Their looks held an air of open candidness about them.

  


Finally, after a beat, Mycroft set down his empty cup, lifted himself from the chair and responded, “Hmmm, yes. Always a pleasure to provide entertainment fodder, Doctor. It’s time I take my leave; country to run and all. Thank you for the cup of tea.” He ambled towards the door, turning back upon the frame to lock eyes with Sherlock again who hadn’t moved a muscle. “And Sherlock?” he said solemnly, “Do give consideration to what I’ve said. The choice of course is yours, though I daresay you would be pleasantly surprised should you follow through with it.” With that, the British Government turned and continued out the door, a small, genuine smile quirking his lips that he would vehemently deny ever existed if anyone were to bear witness to it. The Iceman’s heart gave one solitary, scorching beat, before returning to its petrified state in the frozen tundra of his chest.

  


Inside the flat, John shook his head as he rose from his seat to collect the empty teacups and return them to the kitchen. His earlier pique at his flatmate forgotten in the aftermath of the amusing, albeit, peculiar visit, he asked, “Are you sure your brother isn’t under stress? That was rather strange, even for him. I’ve got to admit, I never pictured your brother having any interest in, let alone even any knowledge of a gentlemen’s club, but then to suggest you should go…well. What a laughable consideration.”

  


He deposited the teacups in the sink and set about washing them. Upon his return to the sitting room he realized Sherlock was still immobile, eyes not quite distant in the same glassy way that was indicative of his visits to his mind palace, but still held a faraway look. “Sherlock? You okay, mate? Did your brother break you with that last bit of conversation? Sherlock?”

  


In one fell swoop, Sherlock sprung from his spot on the sofa onto his feet and exclaimed in excitement, “John! John! Text Lestrade. Tell him to meet us here tonight at nine o’clock. We’re going to the gentlemen’s club. Tell him to dress casually, we don’t want it obvious that he’s a detective. You should be fine in your jumpers, although perhaps not the extra woolly beige one, we don’t want to be repulsive either. The navy blue one will work.” He began bustling about in a whirlwind like a Tasmanian devil as he continued, “We’ll need to stop and get cash, of course, we can’t very well blend in if we’re not interacting with the dancers, and the dancers won’t want to interact with us if we’re not paying. Although we don’t want to take too much with us either, that could give unsavory individuals incentive to harass us. Observation should be our key focus for most of the evening while we deduce what we’re there to look out for.”

  


“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you going on about?” John interjected. “You’re actually taking Mycroft’s idea seriously? And what do you mean, ‘observe to figure out what we’re there for?’ It’s a strip club. You go there to look at half-naked women dance around a pole and shake their bits about,” he finished with a shake of his hand.

  


“Of course we’re going, do keep up, John.”

  


“Sherlock. Stop. Explain. Why are we going? Why are you listening to your brother whom you usually fight tooth-and-nail against anything and everything.”

  


Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh as though it pained him to take the time to answer, “ _Because,_ John. There’s a mystery afoot my brother is privy to that he is sharing with us. He can’t tell us directly—likely bound by secrecy or lawful reasons—but he’s pointing us in the right direction for us to indirectly come about it. I don’t _know_ the precise reason as to why we are to go there—not enough data—only that we will discover something enticing that has nothing to do with what is seen on the surface.”

  


“You got all that from what he said tonight, did ya? Are you sure you’re not just so bored you’re looking for a mystery within banal, albeit, peculiar conversation?”

  


“ _Yes,_ John, _obviously._ My brother and I developed a collection of key words and phrases years ago in our youth, if you must know,” he replied with a sniff. “He invoked such a phrase this evening alerting me to the fact that what he says is with sincerity, and that I should read deeper between the lines. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go prepare for tonight. I suggest you do the same.” With a graceful flair that was pure _Sherlock,_ he grabbed his phone from the coffee table and strode towards and out the door, leaving a bewildered John staring after him.

  


“I can’t determine which one of the Holmeses is more barmy than the other. Then again, I’m the one talking to himself. Right. Well, nothing to it but to send Greg a text.” A giggle escaped his lips. At least tonight promised to be more fun than the past few weeks with Sherlock finally lifted out of his melancholic mood, however temporary that may last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### 221B

  


Though it had taken several texts and a phone call to convince Detective Inspector Lestrade that the boys of Baker Street weren’t pulling his leg—they were, in fact, going to a gentleman’s club—and that he was invited to attend, he finally acquiesced to go along with. Arriving at Baker Street at half eight that evening, he fought not to laugh with each step he took up the stairs to their flat. He thought he’d gotten most of the laughs out already once he finally talked on his mobile with John and confirmed the truth of their plans, yet here upon the threshold of seeing Sherlock _in-person,_ prepared to go out to a club to see nearly nude women...well, the ludicrousness of the situation was too comical to hold in.

  


Gathering his inner strength, he stifled his humour as he reached the top of the landing, just as John opened the door, having heard Mrs Hudson letting him in down below. John had his thin lips pressed together in a display of stoicism and gave a slight nod saying “Greg” in welcome. Lestrade mirrored his body language and actions with a “John.” Eyes locked and bodies frozen in place for half a beat and suddenly, like a dam breaking open after too much buildup of pressure, peals of laughter burst forth between the two friends.

  


John stepped back, motioning in between their fits of laughter for Greg to follow. “I’m so glad you could join us, Greg;” John managed to huff out between laughs, “it’s a relief to have another witness to this surrealism.”

  


“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Greg replied, slapping John on the back. “Just imagine the stories we’ll have to tell.” And with that, another wave of laughter broke forth between them.

  


Several minutes later their chuckles finally drew to a close as they clutched their sides in agony.

  


“Where’s his Highness?” Greg enquired.

  


“He’s holed himself up in the bathroom doing who knows what. Finishing touches, I suppose. I’d offer you tea, but I was looking forward to a couple fingers full of Scotch to wet my whistle before the night’s adventure. Would you like a glass?”

  


Greg let a wide grin spread his face as he said, “Count me in.”

  


Glasses poured and in-hand, the two friends took seats around the kitchen table to await the consulting detective. A slight swirl, small sniff, and satisfied sip later, Greg said, “None too shabby. Ta!”

  


“Agreed,” John hummed, after a nip from his own tumbler. “I’ll have to send a note of thanks to Ms Cruz. She gifted us this bottle a few months back, after Sherlock solved a blackmailing case for her.”

  


“I don’t recall that case,” said Greg with a small frown as he wracked his memory for any details.

  


With a snort John replied, “That’s because there never was an official case. Ms Cruz visited here one afternoon to ask us for help and within five minutes of telling us her tale, Sherlock figured out she wasn’t being blackmailed. Her au pair’s boyfriend had sent the nanny a letter as part of a, ah, “scene” between the two, but Ms Cruz had accidentally intercepted it. Not sure why she felt compelled to send us a “reward,” but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he finished with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

  


Greg’s eyebrows had risen into his forehead, yet a grin graced his face as he said, “I’m surprised Sherlock would recognize a frisky tone like that between a couple. Can’t imagine he has much personal experience.”

  


“He said it had something to do with contextual clues within the letter,” John laughed. “That, and the fact that the punishment stated for not complying was rather personal and erotically explicit in nature.”

  


At that, laughter erupted between the two men again before gradually fading away into companionable silence as each reminisced fondly on their own more youthful sexual exploits.

  


“If you two are quite done blathering on like a gaggle of teenage girls, perhaps we could proceed to far more interesting affairs,” Sherlock interrupted as he strolled into the kitchen.

  


“Oi, you git! You’re the one who spent the past three quarters of an hour squirreled away getting ready doing…whatever you were doing,” John said with a flippant gesture of his hand. He downed the rest of his glass in preparation of departure anyway, unwilling to keep Sherlock waiting after finally finding a reprieve for the younger man’s bout of melancholic torpor. The fact that such a manner also happened to have high entertainment potential only increased his own excitement for the night’s festivities to commence.

  


Greg, having already finished his drink, clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly before saying, “Right. Normally I’d be inclined to tell you to ‘bugger off’ after a barb like that, but I’m far too eager to get to the club myself. Can’t tell you the last time I’ve been to one,” he smiled. “And with the divorce finally gone through, who knows where the night will lead...” he trailed off and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  


John laughed and supplied, “Last time for me was Harry’s stag night years back. I tell ya, you want a lot of attention from the dancers, go with a group of girls. The way they holler and cheer, the dancers eat it up. Probably a lot nicer for them than being leered at by creepy men. Though I never had much problem when I’d visit with my mates while on leave during the campaign, mind you. The ladies love a man in uniform.” His face took on a wistful look.

  


Sherlock let out an exasperated eye roll to accompany his tone, “As _fascinating_ as this reminiscence down memory lane is, the objective of the evening is to observe and pay attention to anything strange afoot.”

  


“Oh we’ll be observing, alright,” Greg chuckled. “But without confirmation of anything seriously dangerous going on, we might as well have a bit of fun.” He stood up and almost clasped Sherlock on the shoulder, before remembering the younger man’s aversion to being touched (except by John, he’d noticed). Instead he gestured towards the door and asked, “Gentleman, shall we?”

  


John murmured his assent, and together the three men vacated the Baker Street flat to catch a cab, wishing Mrs Hudson a good evening when they passed her door.

  


#### Cab

  


“I took the liberty of withdrawing £200 from your account while I was out earlier, John,” Sherlock said in the back of the cab, while handing over the cash and pilfered bank card.

  


The fact that John merely leveled Sherlock with an aggrieved look without comment while palming the items meant he’d finally learned not to bother asking how Sherlock nicked his card and knew his PIN number, though he’d resignedly accepted a long time ago the lack of personal boundaries Sherlock always displayed between them.

  


“So, Sherlock, have you ever been in a strip club before?” Lestrade asked.

  


“I’ve never had a case arise that needed me to do so.”

  


Lestrade scratched the back of his head. “Do you have a general idea of what to expect?” he tried to ask tactfully.

  


“Don’t be dull, Geoff. I use to frequent other types of clubs in my...rebellious days. I’m sure those experiences are more than adequate in preparation for tonight’s endeavors. We can start from the periphery of the club and work our way in towards the stage as the night progresses.”

  


“Did you call me Geoff?”

  


Sherlock looked questioningly at the DI, but John quickly said, “ _Greg_ , Sherlock. His name is Greg. How can you possibly still delete his name after all these years?”

  


“I thought it would behoove us all to employ aliases this evening, out of precaution. ‘Geoff’ can be yours, John, we’ll call you ‘Ormond,’ and I’ll be ‘Sigerson,’” Sherlock replied smoothly. That settled, Sherlock turned his thoughts towards the ensuing exploits. He ran permutations of various possible scenarios one could reasonably expect to encounter at the gentlemen’s club, then proceeded to ratiocinate to eliminate which of those were decidedly mundane; his own axiomatic system and Bayesian probability allowing him to hypothesize on what he inferred from Mycroft’s message. While he may not know what to look out for at the club, he could derive from his brother’s coded words that whatever it was, it would be enlightening and ultimately _interesting_ , if not immediately so; he could thus rule out the hypothesized extraneous details before arriving at the club where he would likely be overwhelmed otherwise, allowing himself to stay sharp and focused on the more significant trifles.

That his meddlesome brother had enacted such an old form of subterfuge was, he hated to admit, intriguing. While he was curious as to _why_ the antiquated system was employed now, as well as why his brother would do anything so uncharacteristically unselfish (at least seemingly so), the reasons were irrelevant to the current moment-at-hand and those questions were delegated elsewhere in his mind palace for later review. The possibility of being indebted to his brother should the night prove fruitful was irksome, yet the excitement of the ensuing mystery pulsing through his veins was too thrilling to be mired down. He’d never admit it to anyone, not even under pain of torture, but he couldn’t completely ignore the small feeling of gratitude for his brother borne from his actions. Finally! After weeks of boring nothingness, he had a puzzle—and therefore a purpose—again. His mental synapses were ablaze, firing brighter than a supernova.

  


“ **SHERLOCK!** ” the other two occupants yelled, finally snapping the consulting detective out of his reverie.

  


“We’re here, mate. The cabbie is waiting for us to vacate so he can catch another fare,” Lestrade said.

  


“Why didn’t you say something sooner? Let us commence,” replied Sherlock, as he gracefully whirled from his seat and out the door, oblivious to the matching looks of aggravation the remaining men wore.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Ékleipsi

  


Three friends entered through a sleek, black, heavy wooden door of a nondescript building, having finished paying the entrance fee of the establishment and exchanging higher notes for lower denominations. The first and eldest of the three friends (as noticed by his silvered hair and wearied, yet proud bearing that told of pervasive aches that come with age) strolled forward, taking a quick glance around before sidling over to the side, keeping close to the wall. He wore dark blue denim jeans, well worn but in well cared for condition, with an emerald green button-up long sleeve dress shirt.

The next member of the group, a shorter man of fair hair, deep blue eyes, and embedded lines upon his face that told tales of adventure in the sun and expressive emotional responses, followed next. This man, who was in the prime of his life and who could be said to have two distinct facets to his personality—that of a seasoned professional and the other of a military orderliness and precision—wore a relaxed gait upon his person that matched his relaxed attire...pressed charcoal grey trousers and a rich, navy blue cashmere jumper that was similar to the depth and colour of his eyes. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, complimenting the easygoing look while also helping to cool himself down a bit from the summer heat.

The final and youngest man of the group followed last, his tall, lithe figure adorned by a light grey bespoke herringbone suit with a soft, bright blue shirt visible underneath the jacket. The sharp, clean lines of the suit accented the sharp lines of his body and face, the pliable fabric draping elegantly over his limbs as he glided across the floor, while the colours of his posh ensemble complimented the ivory tone of his skin and the pale blue-grey-sometimes-flecked-green of his eyes, giving them an almost otherworldly glow that flashed as brilliantly as his quicksilver mind. The raven-coloured mop of curly hair atop his head was the only thing of disarray upon his frame, though they were tamed down into a more artful arrangement.

  


The gentlemen conversed congenially in private for a bit, collecting their bearings, as they acclimated to the atmosphere around them. Sconces along the deep maroon-painted walls gave off a dim glow, while strategically placed floor lights gave the patrons direction of where to proceed—a beacon beckoning forward into the fray. Built-in nooks aligned along the outside walls of the floor, offering slight privacy to the groups who sat in them from neighboring patrons, each with a table that sat between the cushioned benches lining the privacy walls. Smaller tables with single or double chairs edged outward towards the middle, and the entire far wall was a bar, filled with bottles of liquor glittering in the low light of the room.

The epicentre of the vast room was sunken in, dipping down almost two metres like a gladiator pit, with sets of stairs dispersed around, leading the way down. An oval, oblong shaped stage, roughly a metre in height, sat in the centre with wheeled sitting chairs lined all around it, save for the break of stairs at either end. The floor of the stage was lit from underneath, a luminous nucleus; two equidistant poles, five-and-one-half metre in height, sprung out to reach all the way to the ceiling. A few sets of tracklights were aimed towards the stage, fading into alternating colours and pivoting around the area to gleam across anything they hit.

  


Decisions made, the trio made their way to sit in one of the nooks in the closest corner by the entrance, providing an expansive view of the entire room so as to see and catalogue all who entered for the first part of the night.

  


#### Camaraderie

  


“What about that fellow? He’s got a shifty look about him,” Greg enquired before taking another sip of his beer.

  


“Drug dealer,” came Sherlock’s immediate, surly reply, without looking towards the man in question.

  


“And I take it by your lack of interest that’s not the ‘mystery’ we’re here for?”

  


“Certainly not, Geoff. By my count, there’s been five drug dealers thus far, eleven people looking for paraphernalia, and fifteen of which are already high—eighteen, if you include the dancers we’ve seen so far. Whatever we’re here for, it’s not for anything so mundane as that.”

  


Greg restrained the long-suffering sigh itching to escape his mouth, reminding himself that he was off duty and there to have fun. A few hours in and the night was already proving to be well worth the visit. Watching Sherlock’s reactions to the erotic stimuli was entertaining in-and-of-itself, but then seeing the man fake nice whenever a dancer joined their table in an effort to entice one of the men to a lap dance was both utterly fascinating and mildly disturbing—a bit like a compelling train wreck: more than a little frightening, but you don’t ever want to look away. Holmes would barely spare a passing glance as the women danced on stage, yet he acted engaged and oozed charm when interacting with them at their table, leaving the ladies fawning all over him. Greg had a feeling the additional layers of clothes the ladies wore when walking around the floor may have made it easier for the younger man to interact with them, though Sherlock protested he didn’t watch them dance because that certainly wasn’t what they were doing on the stage—most all of the so-called _dancers_ ‘merely gyrated around the pole and on the floor without much effort nor grace—and therefore not worth the eyesore to watch’ as he put it.

  


“Drink!”

  


Greg was pulled out of his thoughts by John’s return as he handed over a shot glass and another beer to chase it with. “Ta, mate!” Sherlock was still nursing the same glass of Scotch he ordered when they first arrived.

  


“Sigerson, we need to teach you the subtle art of how to be a wingman,” John started. His expression was dead serious, yet there was a playful glint in his eye.

  


“What on earth does that mean?” asked Sherlock, a bewildered expression marring his marble-like face.

  


Greg gave a hearty laugh, “Cor! Now you’re talking, Ormond!”

  


“You’ve got nearly all the birds here wrapped around your finger, without even any interest in anything romantic from them. As a wingman, you direct their attention to one of us instead in support, play up our accomplishments and our attributes and whatnot so they’re more interested in us,” John explained with a sly smile.

  


“What purpose would that serve? Surely you’d rather not be involved with any of the females here. Five of them have children...you’ve never indicated any prior interest in single mothers, three of them are already in relationships, one of them is a lesbian, and as I told Geoff, three of them are high, and I know your disapproval on that matter. Besides, if anyone can’t notice yours and Geoff’s merits without being pointed out to them, they’re not worth your time.”

  


Greg nearly spat out his swig of beer and he noticed John was giving a spectacular imitation of a goldfish, mouth stuck gaping in an ‘O’ shape. He knew Sherlock ultimately must have felt fondly of John—the men were best friends after all—but to hear such a proclamation of praise from a man who regularly expressed words of disdain towards _everybody_ , and to be _included_ in that praise…he thought back through the night’s events to see if there was any point in time Sherlock would have been alone in which he could have scored and taken something from one of the apparently several drug dealers around the club.

  


“I’m not high, Geoff,” Sherlock said in a display of his uncanny ability to practically read minds. “Honestly, is your lack of self confidence a byproduct of your recent divorce? It’s been a few months, surely your emotional state should be stable enough by now that you can accept a compliment without questioning the validity of it.”

  


“Best to just take it when you get it,” John winked at Greg, a small smile now occupying his weathered face. “Sigerson, that was quite a bit good of you,” he now beamed towards the consulting detective and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d say that even makes up for the teeth in the sugar bowl the other week.”

  


“That was an important experiment to determine how rapid the rate of decomposition would take on otherwise healthy adult teeth when exposed to excessive amounts of fructose. We didn’t have any fruit in the flat—how else was I to test it? Now, if we can focus back on the here-and-now, I believe the first clue of our evening has finally arrived.”

  


Years of experience in undercover detective work kept both Greg and John from looking around at that last statement. Instead, they shifted a bit closer to the table and Greg asked, “What is it?”

  


“A serial rapist walked in, with every indication he plans to strike tonight. Hmm, I do hope that’s not all we’re here for—how boring. Hopefully there’s more to it than that—perhaps his victim holds the key to our greater purpose tonight; he definitely isn’t one to pick his prey at random, he’d have been stalking her here for a while. The familiarity the employees at the door shared with him indicate he’s a regular and likely uses this venue as the pool from which he picks his targets. I’m surprised he hasn’t already been caught—particularly given his penchant for brutal violence while he performs his forcible violations—though I don’t recall any news on frequent, gruesome rapes nor murders of exotic dancers. Oh this is turning out to have potential.”

  


“And back to a bit not good,” John shook his head, the former jovial expression now replaced with a grim look of disapproval...whether that disapproval was for Sherlock’s cavalier attitude or for the rapist, Greg wasn’t sure, but they both were familiar with Sherlock’s inappropriate responses to such things, and he personally was more concerned over the thought that a serial rapist was about and looking to attack someone tonight. Determination steeled through his veins to catch the vile offender before they could follow through. A look over at John and he saw that same determination reflected back at him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Dance

  


The prior-and-would-be rapist sat at a single’s table towards the outset of floor, and though he watched several of the dancers’ routines on stage, the way he repeatedly looked to his watch left little doubt in Sherlock’s mind that he was waiting for a particular dancer to arrive—his would-be victim. Excitement started to thrum in Sherlock’s veins in anticipation of what more there was yet to discover. Obviously, yes, it was a good thing to have a serial rapist caught, convicted, and to prevent someone else falling prey to his plans, but Mycroft wouldn’t have sent Sherlock here for _merely_ that—the Yard could’ve been alerted instead. Sherlock’s mind was far too valuable to waste on such a trivial matter, and besides, Mycroft’s underlying message promised a far more fascinating opportunity lay ahead.

  


Finally, as midnight approached, the man extricated himself from his seat and made his move towards the pit to take a seat around the stage. “Follow me. While we’re down there, pay attention to the dance and act like you enjoy it,” Sherlock rumbled to his friends.

  


“Yeah, not one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, that,” John replied with small smile.

  


John and Lestrade looked a bit more relaxed now than they did upon the reveal of the serial rapist’s arrival—probably realizing he wouldn’t get a chance to attack his intended victim for several hours yet until after the club closed—but their earlier exuberance was replaced with a more alert and slightly stoic bearing.

  


They each took a rather comfortable seat near the middle of the stage for a better viewpoint between each pole, the chairs rolling easily on casters.

  


“Don’t forget to tip money up on the stage, it’s bad form to sit and watch this close without paying for the view,” John winked at Sherlock as he got some of his own money ready in his hand. Lestrade gave a little chuckle from John’s right, and Sherlock followed suit to get out some bills. Best to follow protocol and mimic his friend’s actions given their experience in this matter. Sherlock gave a quick glance around and noticed several other patrons quietly making their way to sit down by the stage. It would seem tonight’s intended victim was popular with the regular crowd—that likely fed into the would-be rapist’s desire...to conquer, control, and debauch that which others coveted.

  


Sherlock was snapped out of his musings in his mind palace as he saw Lestrade and John placing a couple quid onto the stage as the current dancer finished her turn, and he quickly placed a few notes up as well.

  


The DJ took to the microphone to announce the next dancer, “Next up we have the lovely, the enthralling, the mesmerizing, ‘Melissa!’ Sadly tonight is her last night with us, so let’s give her lots of lovin’ and wish her luck on her next adventure!”

  


Several people actually cheered at that, and Sherlock’s suspicions were further confirmed by the rapist’s enraptured attention towards the stairs by the stage. The music began to mix and slowly meld from the obnoxiously thudding, fast-paced beat the previous dancer performed to, to something much slower and more melodious. Still nothing a classical music lover like Sherlock would ever listen to on a normal day, but it held a not-entirely-unpleasant beat and sound.

  


Key: C#. Tempo: 45bpm. 3/4 time signature...different. Popular for waltzes, not so much contemporary music.

  


Sherlock’s musings quieted down as a petite figure in towering twenty centimetre heels ascended the stairs onto the stage. Roughly 162.5cm in height without heels, couldn’t be much more than 7.2 stones, with long copper-coloured hair styled into full, wavy curls. An hourglass figure that was a tad thicker on the lower half than the top, a very narrow waist, very well toned—every muscle of her body had definition to it, even her abdominal muscles, but there was still a feminine softness to them that diffused their prominent harshness into gentle accenting curves instead.

  


She made her way towards the pole nearest Sherlock, each step gliding forward as smoothly as a snake through water. Her face was obscured by her curtain of hair and the shadows of the lights. When she reached the pole, she extended a hand to grab it from above while she continued to pivot around it, adding a twirl as she walked around. She began climbing the pole in measured extensions, occasionally holding herself in place by only her spread apart hands in order to create a rhythmic wave of her body. Once she reached near the top, she pinned the pole between her legs to fold the top half of her body over the front of the pole in an elegant arc as the pole slowly spun around. Left arm reaching up and back in a twisted grip to grab the pole, right arm spread down, her legs released their hold and her hips methodically moved upward, one leg bent at the knee, the other extended out, toes pointed. In an ever carefully controlled movement, her hips and legs continued to progress upwards until her legs were parted in a ‘V’ shape above her, her hands the only point of contact on the pole. As the opening of the song broke to the first round of the chorus, she began tumbling down the length of the pole in an awe-inspiring spectacle of acrobatic strength and grace, wrapping her body in different poses and positions until she finally reached back to the floor—where she proceeded to undulate her legs and body in an elegant display in-time with the music.

  


“I think I’m in love,” Sherlock heard Lestrade murmur. He thought about that for a second—her performance was...Sensual. Visceral. Oh he could appreciate the aesthetic appeal—in an abstract manner, of course. Even though he was removed from such base feelings. Her movements were organic...flowing effortlessly. If he were a lesser man he could see the appeal. Hypnotic and mesmerizing to watch. But to be in love? Lestrade was more likely feeling lust. That would make more sense—the man hadn’t engaged in carnal acts for several months from what he’d noticed every time he saw the man, and normal humans desired such things.

  


The broken moment of pondering over Lestrade’s comment made Sherlock realize his mind had been uncharacteristically quiet up to this point...he’d been absorbed by this ‘Melissa’s’ dance rather than objectively detached from it and he hadn’t yet made any observations of her other than the cursory ones from her first appearance. Foolish. His mind must be rusty after the hiatus in Work the past few weeks. He focused back on her person to observe.

  


Age: early to mid-thirties. Normal metatarsal development—so lack of prior dancing experience, yet fluidity of movement, flexibility, and strength with practiced routine indicate both martial arts training (tai chi for sure, possibly also Hapkido or Aikido, and possibly a form of fencing–unsure) as well as experience on a pole, but for fitness, not in public...knees display recent rubbing and bruising roughly only a few weeks old, likely wears knee pads in private. Clothes and shoes also only a few weeks old corroborating with knee injuries to subject that she is new to erotic dancing in public, despite skill. Ring...ornate, petrified wood; old. Exceedingly old. Doesn’t appear carved..naturally shaped, but how? Golden necklace with double-sided heart-shaped pendant, surface of gemstones engraved with symbols—appears to be animal sigils? Need closer view. Necklace and pendant are old, style reminiscent of Medieval—quite valuable. Not dancing for money, or would have sold necklace, unless it holds sentimental value—still not desperate enough to sell at least—plus clothes of high quality and expensive, another sign money isn’t a motivating factor for being here. Unconcerned with wearing necklace in this environment around potential thieves, so likely confident in martial arts or other self defense abilities. Interesting placement of callouses on hands...underside of index, middle fingers and along ridge of thumb leading towards wrist...similar to a conductor baton, but marginally wider and rougher with uneven wear pattern on skin—need more data. Notably missing...any scarring. Not one single scar visible. Bruising and brush burns on knees evident, but no scars of any nature—need more data. Ink stain on fingers—uses a fountain pen...how novel. Prominent smells of woodsmoke, earthy, floral, honey. Natural, not chemical, not perfume. Nothing I recognize...exotic? Herbaceous...gardener? No—no dirt under nails...if ink stain wasn’t cleaned off, dirt would still be present. New age chemist? Conclusion: Indeterminable.

  


Sherlock felt a shock of simultaneous frustration and fascination. There was plenty of data available of this woman, but none of it made sense enough to combine into a solid deduction. The only thing he _could_ deduce with any certainty was that she wasn’t working here for a desire for money, though she seemed to earn plenty of it by the plethora of notes he saw around the stage. Her abilities and ingenuity in performing an actual dance-like routine seemed to be appreciated by many of the patrons around the club as several people from the upstairs floor specifically walked over to leave money on the stage for her. Whatever her true objective for being here, Sherlock felt compelled to find out, and upon realizing that, he felt another hum of excitement, certain that she must be part of the bigger mystery of the night.

  


The music began segueing into another melody, another slow tune with a female singer who expressed their…fatigue of playing archery? The lyrics didn’t make sense, but the sound was unique and seductive. ‘Melissa’ altered her dancing tactics to more floorwork, only occasionally doing a trick upon the pole. While moving on the floor, she began to make rounds to interact with the people by the stage. In the peripheral line of his sight, Sherlock noticed John and Lestrade hunch together to converse, but he paid them no mind. He finally caught a good view of ‘Melissa’s’ face...oval, almost heart-shaped, symmetrical, prominent cheekbones, small nose with slightly rounded tip, eyebrows and lips neither thin nor thick but with defined Cupid’s bow, brilliant blue eyes with a central heterochromia line of orange, then green around the pupils. Expression lines around mouth and eyes—smiles often and genuinely, furrowed brow line—prolonged periods of concentration.

  


‘Melissa’ was drawing nearer to their group when Sherlock felt John shuffle towards him and tuck a few bills into the collar of his shirt. Though he trusted John implicitly, his curiosity got the best of him and he quietly asked, “What’s this about?”

  


“Stripper tricks. Consider it a right of passage and an opportunity to gather more data,” came John’s amused reply. Sherlock looked over and saw Lestrade also had money tucked in his collar, whereas John had his placed in a more brazen position between the top band of his trousers. Both men wore expressions of giddiness, their eyes crinkling at the corners and silent shakes trembling their body in suppressed laughter. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the juvenile display, but kept the money in place as he couldn’t argue against the logic of collecting more data—even though he’d have to endure being touched.

  


The dancer reached Lestrade and her face broke into a grin. She sat herself on the edge of the stage, legs dangling down on either side of his chair, and beckoned him to lean forward with the crook of her finger. He immediately complied, his face lighting up like a schoolboy’s on Christmas, and she removed the largest bill from his neck to place it unfolded along his lips.

  


“Suck-and-blow,” she said with a sly wink and smile. Lestrade caught on to her meaning and slightly inhaled with his mouth to keep the bill in place. She then leaned forward, ran her fingers through his hair, tilted his head back, and met his mouth with hers on the other side of the bill. She kept their connected mouths in place but proceeded to cup his cheeks and jaw, then moved her hands around to his neck, his shoulders, his upper back, and back up to his head. She finally sucked in through her own mouth, whereupon Lestrade relented his hold on the bill, and she drew back to the stage, leaving Lestrade flushed a delicate shade of pink.

  


She next directed her attention towards John, after setting the money behind her, and broke out in a tinkling laugh. “Cheeky,” she said, and John smiled his megawatt smile, leaning back in his seat with his arms folded behind his head. ‘Melissa’ sat on her knees, right to the edge of the stage, and leaned forward to grab both arms of John’s chair. She pushed his chair to roll him backwards just a bit, and with eyes locked upon his, she pivoted her upper body downwards until her face was directly above the crease of his trousers. She removed the bills slowly with her teeth, then began pulling his seat back towards the stage. As the seat returned in place, she ducked her head down between his legs—the back of her head against the seat, her bum propped up in the air on the stage—and she gave a wiggling motion with her body for a few seconds, before finally rising back up. A few people laughed at that display, and one man could be heard saying “Good on ya, mate!” towards John.

  


As she turned to Sherlock, he couldn’t decide if he felt intrigued or apprehensive. He prepared himself for being touched, schooling his face and body into a blank mask of nonchalance. Their eyes met as she reached him, gazes locked for a moment whereupon he saw a depth of intelligence behind her eyes. She gave a quick scan of his person, before returning his gaze, and her face opened up into a warm, welcoming smile of acceptance. Sherlock couldn’t explain why, but he felt his sense of trepidation calm and ease. Eyes still locked together, ‘Melissa’ leaned forward to grab both arms of his chair. She slowly pushed back, following with her body, until they were a metre away from the stage, her body hovering over his, extended parallel from the floor, with only one leg touching the stage at her shin to keep herself from falling, the other bent at the knee to create an artistic line with her body. She repositioned his chair back a bit towards her as her head ducked to the side by his neck and she dipped her entire body down closer to his. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as he waited for skin to connect. And waited. And waited. That connection never came. Instead, he felt the slightest sensation at the crook of his neck of air gently passing over his skin. She nuzzled her head around his neck and ear, gently breathing over his flesh, but never touching it, just as her body hovered over top of his mere centimetres apart, but never connecting. He felt his skin break out in gooseflesh as she trailed along the expanse of his throat, until he felt the sensation of the bills tucked in his collar being slowly pulled away. She lifted herself up away from him while reconnecting their gaze, money pinned in her mouth, and she began to pull his seat back towards the stage until he was tucked back into his previous spot. A couple catcalls broke Sherlock from his entranced reverie, and he felt John slap him on the arm. ‘Melissa’ gave him a warm smile again, before moving on to the next gentleman around the stage. Sherlock’s gaze lingered after her for a second, before he looked down at the items in his hand he managed to pick out from her hair...feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs featured are “Call Out My Name” by The Weeknd and “Glory Box” by Portishead, respectively.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Private Dance

  


“I need more data,” Sherlock informed John and Lestrade with his head in hand, pulling slightly on his curls. “Everything is _wrong_ , none of this makes sense.” The feathers he managed to nick from ‘Melissa’ had only caused further confusion. He wasn’t an ornithologist, but he was fairly certain one of the feathers belonged to a species of owl, the Athene noctua. The other feather was unlike anything he knew to exist...vibrant red in colour that seemed to have a luminous quality to it, it shimmered a rainbow of colours along the tip and had an olfactory essence of ‘sunshine.’ How ‘sunshine’ could possibly be defined as a smell, he had no idea, but it was the only word that came to mind as a descriptor for the scent.

  


“That’s women for ya, the ultimate sphinxes,” supplied Lestrade. They were back seated at their previous table, and Sherlock was still having a hard time coming up with any conclusive deductions on the would-be victim of the serial rapist. The rapist still sat by the stage, but his eyes continually lingered over to the dancer as she walked around the floor interacting with patrons.

  


“Look, since you're convinced she’s to do with why your brother sent us here, not to mention the fact that she’s targeted by a vile, despicable excuse of a man, why don’t you get a private dance with her so you can try to learn more about her. We’ll stay here and keep an eye on the perp,” John offered.

  


“You magnificent conductor of light! Excellent idea, Ormond,” and with that, Sherlock spun out of his chair towards the puzzling dancer to ask her for a private dance. She looked him over in an uncanny manner he imagined was similar to his own way of scanning people, before agreeing with a smile and leading him to a door near the back of the floor. Through the door and down a hall, they made way to the last door and into a small, private room with a cushioned bench along a wall, an ottoman in the centre, and a small table to the side. The lights were dimmed low, dark fabric draped across the walls, and music hummed through the space, giving the atmosphere an intimate air.

  


Sherlock froze for a second, before ‘Melissa’ gestured towards the bench and said, “Have a seat, Mr?...”

  


“Sigerson,” he took the proffered seat, leaned back, and crossed his ankle over his knee.

  


“Sigerson,” ‘Melissa’ replied with a knowing smile as she sat on the ottoman across him. “Well now, Mr Sigerson, why don’t we cut to the chase; what is it you would like to enquire about?” she asked warmly.

  


Sherlock gawked at her. He felt a fissure of panic crack open—does she know who he really is and why he’s there? Who is she working for? Is this some plot to get under his skin? Memories of The Women began flooding his mind in an unpleasant wave.

  


‘Melissa’s’ brow furrowed in concern and she leaned further back to give him more space, “I’m so, terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to invoke feelings of discomfort. I thought you would feel uncomfortable if you continued with your ruse of getting a lap dance, and figured it would be kinder to just indulge your curiosity forthright instead. I should never assume; I’m often making that mistake. Please forgive me, and tell me how I may help you.”

  


Sherlock was still frozen in place as he reviewed her words. She was being honest, that much he could tell, and she didn’t seem to know his identity, but it was disconcerting as to how she could read him as easily as Mycroft—he being the only one who was that adept at doing so, John a close second. He carefully thought through the tidal wave of questions coursing within his mind and finally settled on asking, “Your observations are astute; I’d much prefer to avoid physical contact, yet I find myself quite intrigued by your demeanor and would like to learn more about you. I must ask, though, how you could know of my intentions?”

  


‘Melissa’ gave a reassuring smile and said with a small shrug, “I’m an exceedingly empathetic individual. Many people scoff at that notion, but I’m sensitive to and adept at reading people’s emotions. And your inquisitive nature practically pours from your eyes...if ever there was a perfect representation of ‘Glaukôpis,’ your eyes would be it,” she said that last sentence with an appreciative look into his eyes that left him feeling slightly flustered.

  


“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term,” he quietly replied.

  


“Very few are. It was an epithet used to describe the Greek Goddess Athena. Scholars have a difficult time translating it to modern day terminology, and as such, it can mean anything from a colour of eyes—light blue-grey-and-even-green, or it could be a reference to the brightness or character of eyes—“flashing eyes,” “glancing eyes,” “darting eyes,” “gleaming eyes,” and “bright eyes”...in summation, calculating and observing eyes. You seem to embody all senses of the word,” she finished with a trace of humour in her own eyes.

  


“What are you doing here?” Sherlock blurted, startling himself. He didn’t mean to blurt out his question so tactlessly, but he was having a hard time keeping patient. This woman was beguiling and it irritated him not to know what was going on.

  


At the sight of her raising her eyebrows in consternation at his outburst that then morphed into an expression of confusion, he finally let forth the rush of words berating his thoughts, “Oh, please, we both know you’re not here because you’re “down on your luck” or trying to earn money. If you were that desperate, you’d sell your necklace instead...genuine gold with a ruby and sapphire that hails from the Medieval period? Worth a fortune. Likely inherited, so you come from money, though you didn’t have access to it until you reached adulthood given the pattern of your speech...you’re well-learned but lack the inflexion those who grew up in wealth obtain from private tutors. It’s unlikely you’ve squandered that fortune, as you’ve recently purchased your outfit and shoes—they are neither designer nor off-the-rack...so you’re responsible with your spending, but willing and able to pay for quality. That leads into the fact that although you are highly skilled and practiced at pole dancing, you’ve only been performing it publicly for the past three weeks...both your clothes and shoes support that, but as do the bruises and marks on your knees which are aged the same. You dance on a pole for fitness purposes in private using knee pads. So I repeat, and I really detest repeating myself, _what are you doing here?_ ” he enunciated each word from the last part of his statement with a fierceness.

  


He almost didn’t recognize the awestruck look upon her face; if it hadn’t been for seeing that look on John throughout the course of their friendship, he would have completely overlooked it. As it was, it still surprised him to see it on someone else who wasn’t John, and then to hear an echo of his friend when she simply said, “Remarkable.”

  


His thoughts froze; he had to break eye contact and look down to collect himself. Thankfully, she didn’t comment on his momentary display of weakness, but rather replied in a calming soft voice, “I do not wish to lie to you, Mr Sigerson, but I cannot tell you the truth.” He met her gaze again to see an almost remorseful look in her eyes. “I _can_ tell you, you are correct, money is not the reason behind my being here, but I cannot reveal to you the precise reason either,” she spoke each word carefully as she thought through her response. “The most transparent thing I can say to try to answer you honestly is that I’m here to help some friends.”

  


He mulled over her response, which did nothing to help abate his curiosity and frustration. She waited patiently as he next asked, “What is your profession? If being here was a temporary endeavor, it would subject that you have other avenues you pursue. A mind like yours would be a terrible thing to waste, surely you employ it in an erstwhile endeavor?” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to compliment her with the last part of his question, but she was being as candid as she could—or at least not trying to lie to him, and perhaps if he knew what her career was, he could better understand some of his earlier observations.

  


“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you that either; a girl’s gotta protect herself, after all, and giving too personal of information away can lead to dangerous situations,” she said with a regretful smile. “I do, however, love what I do, and every day is an opportunity to learn and explore new things. I have a lot of freedom in what I do, and I’ve been able to affect many people for the better through my actions. It’s very fulfilling,” her face blossomed into a captivatingly warm smile.

  


Before Sherlock could followup with another question, a small knock resounded upon the door.

  


“Alas, it looks as though our time is up, and with this being my last night here, I really should get back to the floor and continue making my rounds. I feel bereft at missing the opportunity to ask about yourself. It truly was an utmost pleasure, Mr Sigerson; I wish circumstances were different,” her expressive face took on a look of forlorn wistfulness. Sherlock felt a sense of disappointment; speaking with her merely opened the floodgates to a plethora of other questions that he couldn’t ask nor likely get answers to—at least not yet. He felt hope that more was yet to come in the unraveling of this mystery.

  


He got up from his seat and remembered to reach for his wallet to tip her, but she objected, “Don’t worry about it, since we both know I don’t need it,” and with that she gave a wink and sauntered out the door.

  


#### Closing Time

  


Sherlock looked even more bewildered when he rejoined their table, John noted. “Didn’t go so well, then?”

  


“Obviously,” came Sherlock’s reply, but it wasn’t snarky...it was a subdued and distracted rumble. Greg’s eyebrows raised at that. Sherlock finally looked up at the both of them and asked, “Is this how it normally feels for everyone? This _not-knowing_ and inability to _conclude?_ ”

  


John gave Sherlock a slight pat on the back and said, “‘Fraid so. Maybe now you’ll be a little more sympathetic to us _goldfish_.” Sherlock shot him a questioning look but he continued, “I am well aware of what you and your brother like to call us ‘simple folk.’ Why don’t you share what you learned with us; we probably can’t help, but you do sometimes think better and gain clarity after verbalizing your thoughts.”

  


“You are wrong, Ormond. You could never be a goldfish. You are a conductor of light, as I have frequently and even recently told you. Do remember that next time.” John smiled in response, and Sherlock proceeded to relay his conversation with ‘Melissa,’ his eidetic memory capturing every nuance and detail of the experience.

  


At the end of Sherlock’s account, Greg let out a low whistle. “No wonder you're going round the bend over this—she’s the perfect enigma for you.”

  


“You’d think she was a spy, the way she infiltrated this club to only be here for a set period of time,” John said with a shake of his head.

  


“That’s it! You’re brilliant Jo-Ormond! Of course, why didn’t I see it earlier? _Occam’s Razor_...it’s _obvious_ ,” Sherlock exclaimed.

  


“What, you really think she’s a spy?” asked Greg.

  


“Not enough data to ascertain conclusively,” Sherlock murmured, “but it is highly likely she’s working with Mycroft...that would explain how he knew about her being here and why she’s unwilling to reveal information about herself. She likely doesn’t know who we are; naturally she’d be cautious and discreet as Mycroft has the highest expectations of those who work for him. There’s a distinct possibility she is aware of the serial rapist and is working here undercover to draw him out. Still doesn’t explain why Mycroft would bother being involved in something this microcosmic, nor why he involved us, but we’ve another piece to the puzzle. How much longer do we have until the club closes?”

  


John was thrown for a second by Sherlock’s nonsequitur, but he shook it off and checked his watch, “Another quarter hour yet.”

  


“Excellent. Let’s head out and check around the club; we’ll want to find which exit the dancers are likely to use and then find a secluded area to keep watch from. If my hypothesis is correct, ‘Melissa’ will likely be the last to leave to give the rapist the perfect opportunity to attack her in an open area, rather than have him follow her elsewhere. My brother probably has a team of people in place at the ready to support her.”

  


The three men casually took their leave and scouted around the area outside. There turned out to be a couple of exits—one at the rear of the building and one by a side alley—but when they saw a couple dancers leaving early out the back exit, they chose that as the likely place the skirmish would occur. They found an alcove by a building diagonally from the exit where they could stoop behind, and settled in to await the action.

  


“I don’t like the idea of that girl going against that creep. What if we’re wrong? What if he attacks her before anyone can help? I wish I’d have brought my gun—I mean...” John’s eyes widened as he realized what he left slip.

  


Greg snorted, “You mean the gun you think I don’t know about? Come on, John, I may not be a genius, but I didn’t become DI without _some_ skill. A ‘crack shot, skilled marksman, acclimatised to violence, with a strong moral code?’ Just how many of those are running around London?”

  


John felt chuffed, but it was Sherlock who said with an appraising look, “Lestrade, it would seem I don’t give you enough credit. And John, I wouldn’t worry yourself; this ‘Melissa’ has some self-defense skill and is likely able to hold off an attacker until support arrives. Speaking of which, I’m surprised to not see one of my brother’s cars around. Even the CCTV cameras appear to be pointed away from the club. It can’t be much longer until she leaves...by my count she’s the last one…”

  


Before Sherlock could finish his sentence, a flash of light illuminated the street on the other side of the building followed by a loud bang. The men dashed forward as fast as they could, cursing themselves for choosing the wrong door to watch, and Greg removed his hidden gun from its holster. They rounded the corner of the building as Greg pointed his gun and yelled, “Freeze! Detective Inspector Lestrade with New Scotland Yard; keep your hands up where I...can...see.....” he trailed off, for there stood ‘Melissa’ dressed casually in jeans and a shirt, her hands raised above her head, a bemused expression on her face, not a hair out of place. Several feet away from her by the wall of the building lay the body of the would-be rapist, knocked-out cold.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Aurors Get The Best Cases

  


All three men stood frozen in disbelief, until John remembered his Hippocratic Oath and took a step towards the knocked-out body. “Right. As a doctor, I’m just going to go check on him.”

  


“Erm, did you say you’re _Detective Inspector Lestrade?_ ” ‘Melissa’ asked.

  


Greg nodded his head and tried to say ‘yes’ but a croaking sound came out instead. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Yes.”

  


‘Melissa’s’ face broke out into a beaming smile and she gushed, “Oh it’s such a pleasure to meet you, DI Lestrade! Well, unofficially officially meet you, that is. My good friend and colleague, Harry Potter, always speaks so highly of you upon his return to the office whenever he’s had to meet with you.”

  


Sherlock shot a bewildered look towards Greg, as though shocked anyone would sing his praises so highly, but Greg didn’t see it and instead he asked ‘Melissa,’ “You work with Potter?” His arms began to slowly lower the gun he was still holding.

  


“In a roundabout way. I’m head of a different department in our office, but my work often crosses with the Aurors and I’m always willing to lend Harry a hand when he asks...and sometimes even when he doesn’t,” she chuckled fondly. “If you’d like, I can show you identification linking me with the Aurors,” she gave a pointed glance towards his gun still pointed in her direction, “though if you’d rather wait, I sent word to Harry to meet me here; he should be arriving in a little while.”

  


Greg immediately holstered his weapon with an embarrassed, “Of course, of course, my apologies. So this is an Auror case then?”

  


Sherlock finally seemed to collect himself and interjected, “What do you mean, an Auror case? Who or what are these ‘Aurors?’”

  


“Actually, before we get any further into this reveal, I need to ask what happened to this man?” John spoke up from beside the body. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  


Sherlock dashed over to kneel by John, but Greg stood in place while ‘Melissa’ fished out her Auror Associate ID from the small purse hanging across her shoulder.

  


Sherlock’s eyes widened in pure shock. Other than some mild bruising from where the man collided against the wall, there appeared to be no indication of any point-of-attack against his body...no bullet wound, no burn mark from a stun gun, no bruising that would be congruent with a bodily hit. The most puzzling abnormality, however, was that while his pulse beat steadily, his entire body appeared to be somehow locked together—arms pinned to his sides—and as stiff as if rigor mortis had set-in. “Impossible,” Sherlock muttered.

  


“Pretty sure you have an axiom pertaining to that,” John shot him a weary smile.

  


“What happened to him?” Sherlock asked as he sprung back up to stand by Greg, John joining him.

  


“I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say,” ‘Melissa’ responded empathetically, “although, please rest assured, he’s ok and the effects are reversible.”

  


Sherlock scoffed at being denied knowledge, “You’re going to deny answering to a DI of the Yard? He could just take you in to be questioned.”

  


“Actually, Sherlock, no I can’t. She doesn’t have to answer a thing. The Auror department is above the Yard,” Greg said, scratching the back of his neck.

  


Sherlock looked surprised at that, “What exactly does this ‘Auror’ department _do?_ ”

  


“I don’t exactly know. I just know they take the impossible cases—the ones that are unsolvable. They usually contact us directly when we get a case like that to take it over, but occasionally we check in with them when we get a head scratcher before we can even call in you. A representative will come by, and usually they’ll pass on them, but there’s been a couple they’ve picked up. I’ve only ever met with the Head of the department though, Mr Potter.”

  


Sherlock looked positively affronted. John tried not to let a laugh burst out of his mouth by covering it with a cough. Sherlock turned towards him with a murderous look and sulked, “ _Impossible cases_ , John. I’ve been deprived of mental stimulation all this time and no one’s even told me!”

  


‘Melissa’ chuckled a bit at that, but Greg looked up towards the heavens seeking divine intervention and replied, “Nothing against _you_ , Sherlock, we’re not allowed to discuss that department. They’re extremely secretive–not even the news ever hears about them.”

  


“Well, we’ll see how well you deny answering questions to the British Government,” Sherlock said disdainfully towards ‘Melissa’ as a long black car parked at the entrance to the alleyway. They all directed their attention towards it as a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and a professional skirt set stepped out of the back seat, typing away at her mobile, and made her way towards the group.

  


“Penelope! What a pleasant surprise to see you!” ‘Melissa’ broke into a grin.

  


Not-Anthea stopped typing on her phone and placed it in the front breast pocket of her suit jacket. “Always a delight!” she said in reply, leaning forward to give ‘Melissa’ a quick hug. “I see tonight went smoothly for you?” She quirked a sly smile.

  


‘Melissa’ barked out a laugh, “Mostly, though I’ve encountered some, err, complications.” She looked over to the three men only to notice their jaws hanging open. Returning her attention to Penelope, she asked, “What brings you here? Surely Mycroft wasn’t that concerned, he knows I can handle this scum,” she spat that last part as her eyes wondered over to the unconscious man on the ground.

  


“So you _do_ work for my brother,” Sherlock interrupted, stepping forward.

  


‘Melissa’ quirked an eyebrow at him, “Not _for_ him, more like _with_ him on occasion. You could say he and I are unofficial liaisons between our departments, though I’ve come to consider him a great friend. He was helping me tonight by ensuring the CCTV cameras were turned off or away from this area. But wait...wait, wait, wait. You’re his brother? You’re a Holmes?” She looked back towards Penelope, “You’re here for them, aren’t you? Oh wait wait wait. Oh for Merlin’s sake, can that man ever just be direct?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I swear, he would have been the epitome of Slytherin.”

  


Penelope snorted at that, but Sherlock said, “I can’t believe I have to ask this, but would you care to enlighten us as to what revelation you’ve unearthed?”

  


“I’m a bit curious to that, myself,” said a voice from the other end of the alley. A short, yet fit man in his mid-thirties with messy black hair, brilliant green eyes, round glasses, and a zigzag-shaped scar across his forehead strolled up to the group, a smile breaking his face.

  


“Harry!” exclaimed ‘Melissa’ as she bounded over to give him a hug.

  


Harry returned her embrace, then pivoted towards Greg, “DI Lestrade, what a pleasant surprise to see you here,” he extended his hand and the two men shook.

  


“Not as surprised as I am, I assure you,” Greg responded with a weary shake of his head.

  


“Yes, yes, we can all introduce ourselves and sing “Kumbaya” around a campfire later; can we please focus back to what is going on here!” Sherlock asserted.

  


Harry’s brow furrowed as he took in Sherlock, but he said, “I’m actually in agreement with him. What’re you doing here, Sia? _Please_ don’t tell me you went after that guy by yourself?!”

  


“Not entirely. I went undercover, but I’ve been sharing my plans with Mycroft. He’s been helping me on the Muggle side of things while I worked this out, but _Harry_ , I finally did it! I finally have evidence for us to open a case!” Sia radiated excitement as she pulled out a small, long vial that appeared to be filled with a luminescent, bright blue liquid. “I found this in his pocket, he planned to force me to take it. Harry, I’ll have to get back to the office to run a preliminary report on the contents, but from smell I can at least detect Lethe water, asphodel root, valerian root, boom berry, dittany, and mistletoe berries...Harry, this is monumental. I hate to be right, but my theories finally have proof. And now we finally have an opening to start digging deeper.”

  


Harry wore a somber expression as he said, “I never had any doubt you were right, merely hope that you were wrong. This is serious. Someone is supplying Muggles with, errr, unauthorized materials. Whether the Muggles are aware or not, it’s still a serious breach, and who knows what all crimes have been committed. If your theories continue to be right in regards to what that’s capable of...” he pointed towards the vial, but shook his head and frowned, unable to voice his concern. “At least we can question that piece of scum for more answers,” Harry finished, leveling a glare at the man on the ground.

  


“Excuse me, but what are the terms you keep using? What’s a Muggle?” John asked.

  


“Do keep up, John. These people are using codewords and are part of a secret sect of society, one complete with their own set of laws and rules, and therefore likely their own government. I’d venture to say they even have their own boarding school for their youth, separated somewhere remote—possibly in Ireland, more likely in Scotland. Given some of their key phrases, their society appears to be occult in nature—oh don’t give me that look, John, the word occult is from the Latin word _occultus_ , meaning hidden from view, and can mean beyond the range of ordinary knowledge or understanding; mysterious, secret; disclosed or communicated only to the initiated. Oh, and by-the-way, I hear it’s customary to congratulate parents with newborns; I’m sure you and your wife are delighted to invite your third child into your family,” he directed the last part of his statement towards Harry.

  


Harry gaped at Sherlock, but having witnessed his powerful intellect earlier, Sia merely chuckled and shook her head in amused exasperation. “Harry, meet Sherlock _Holmes_ , Mycroft’s brother, whom I’ve had the distinct pleasure of meeting tonight.”

  


Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Merlin’s beard, you’re telling me there’s another one?!”

  


Everyone but Sherlock and Harry laughed at that, and Sherlock actually pouted. “Yes, well I can guarantee you, my brother is the more insufferable one of us.”

  


“Soooo, what are you, DI Lestrade, and your colleague—John?—doing here?” Harry asked.

  


“I think I might have an inkling behind that, if I may?” Sia answered. At the nod from the three men she continued, “I believe Mycroft saw an opportunity for his brother to be made aware of our ‘secret sect.’ Harry—you, Kingsley, Mycroft, and I have all been talking for a long time about becoming more inclusive with Muggles, about branching out with more liaisons between important sectors, NSY being a key one, particularly with the rise in mixed crimes against the Muggle—sect. Most in our ‘group’ wouldn’t be as adept in interacting with Muggles in a case such as what I’ve been doing here for the past few weeks, and we’re going to stretch ourselves too thin trying to keep up with everything.”

  


“That certainly explains having the DI here, but what of the other two?” Harry enquired.

  


Sia gave a laugh. “You heard for yourself how talented he is,” she flashed Sherlock a smile. “From what I‘ve inferred, it seems he works closely with DI Lestrade, as a...freelance detective?” She looked questioningly towards him.

  


“Consulting detective, the world’s only,” Sherlock supplied.

  


Sia smiled, “I believe Mycroft had two objectives by ensuring his brother was here tonight...for one, I think he believes Sherlock would be of great assistance to our work, of which I have to agree—and that’s why he strategized this meeting tonight...he knew I’d see the value in his abilities,” at that she shook her head bemusedly. “The other reason is a rather altruistically unselfish one...quite adorable, really,” she looked straight at Sherlock, “and since I feel a bit annoyed at him for being so convoluted in his plans, I feel no shame in telling you. Your brother wants you to be involved because he knows what great joy it will bring you to learn about our—sect—and to discover things you’ve likely never dreamed possible.”

  


#### Planning

  


Not for the first time that night, Sherlock was rendered speechless. Ordinarily he would have found such a proclamation laughably absurd, but hadn’t he subjected the same thing himself?

  


“You’ve been uncharacteristically quiet since we’ve reached this alley; is everything alright?” John quietly asked Sherlock while the others continued talking.

  


“I find myself at a great disadvantage, John. It appears there is much I do not know; my mind is absorbing quite a _large_ influx of new data to process, as it were.”

  


John nodded his head slowly and agreed, “It is a bit overwhelming to hear...an entire, separate governing body contained within the country? How are they able to keep so secluded?”

  


“You’re forgetting the boarding school, John. A school located in Scotland for the youthful members of this separate society? That would infer other members across the continent attend. There may even be other such schools across the world. I daresay, this sect is a global community.”

  


Both men contemplated the ramifications of that revelation, until they heard Sia say, “Well, gentleman, I suppose we should part ways for the night; Harry and I need to take in the suspect, and as Sherlock pointed out, Harry has a newborn to get back home to. Penelope, please tell Mycroft I’ll be by his office at one tomorrow to discuss a great many thing,” she stated pointedly. “Harry, perhaps we can meet up at eight tomorrow morning? Kingsley is probably going to flip, but I’m confident he’ll agree; we might have to have a few laws rushed through to proceed...would you be willing to talk with Hermione over that? She’s more likely to acquiesce to you.”

  


“Great. You’re right, of course, I’m just not looking forward to the lengthy lecture that’s sure to follow my request...she already helped me out with that Marfin case the other week. But Hermione’s willing to bend the rules when it’s important,” Harry sighed.

  


Sia nodded and turned back towards the three friends, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, everyone. You’ll be hearing from us soon.” She smiled and stepped forward to shake first Lestrade’s hand, then John’s. She turned towards Sherlock and gave him a nod, but he surprised himself by extending his hand to her. She tilted her head to the side slightly, but a small smile stretched across her face as she returned the gesture to shake.

  


“You’ve yet to properly reveal your name,” he rumbled.

  


“Althenalextasia Ambrosios,” her grin got wider. “But please call me, Sia.”

  


Penelope stepped towards them and said, “Gentlemen, if you please?” She gestured towards the end of the alleyway where the black car sat waiting.

  


Lestrade said his goodbye to Harry, and they followed after Penelope as she pulled her Blackberry back out and began typing away. Once they were seated in the back of the car and it began to drive away, Lestrade let out a weary, “Crikey.”

  


“So. Penelope, then?” John asked Not-Anthea. She merely flashed a quick, sly smile before her attention resumed on her mobile.

  


“You’re part of their community; you went to boarding school with them. Althenalextasia was the one to recommend you to Mycroft,” Sherlock stated bluntly.

  


Penelope looked up at him for several long seconds before consenting with a simple, “Yes.” She leveled him with her gaze for a few beats more before adding, “You just met two of the most powerful, prominent, and respected members of our society. Please keep that in mind for future interactions.” She looked towards Lestrade and John to say, “I’ll count on you two to moderate his behavior.” She met each of their eyes once more before before resuming her typing.

  


“Interesting,” Sherlock rumbled quietly, fingers steepling over his chin.

  


They sat in silence for the remainder of the drive, each of the men lost in their thoughts. That silence carried through their journey to Baker Street, through their trek up the stairs, whereupon entering the flat, Sherlock strode over to the sofa to perch in his thinking pose.

  


John and Lestrade ambled into the kitchen. John picked up the kettle and gave Lestrade a questioning look. The DI shook his head once. John set the kettle down, dug through the cabinet below the sink, and re-emerged with the bottle of Scotch from earlier that evening. Lestrade gave a single nod. John poured them both a glass, sat down at the table, and took a long, long drink.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Family Ties

  


Mycroft took a sip of his tea—jasmine today—and reviewed over the paperwork in front of him again. Of course his eidetic memory could recall every word perfectly, but there was something soothing in performing the mundane task. If he was being honest with himself, he would admit he was also rereading the document because he felt disbelief at the words upon the page, and hoped that by looking over it again, he might have misread it the first time. Alas, that was not to be so. He shook his head at the folly of The Yanks.

  


He checked his pocket watch and noted the time; Sia was due to be arriving soon, it would behoove him to prepare for the discussion that would follow. He gathered the tedious paperwork into a neat pile before placing it into a drawer of his desk. He then closed his eyes and designated the next five minutes of his time for him to run through potential ways the upcoming conversation would unfold.

  


“You didn’t account for this one,” came a voice by the fireplace in the room. Mycroft’s eyes snapped back open in time to catch sight of the last of the green-coloured embers fade away from the hearth.

  


“It would appear not,” he said drily.

  


“I know you too well, Mycroft. I figured throwing you off your routine would only be fair recompense after your stunt last night,” the voice said sternly, but Mycroft saw the tinkling laughter in Sia’s eyes and knew she was more amused than upset.

  


“What can I say?” He shrugged, “The timing was too opportune to miss.”

  


“Mycroft, I trust you enough not to argue with you on that, but you know how I feel about all the cloak-and-dagger. Just be direct. Surely you’re aware I would be open minded to listen?” Sia walked over to his desk and took the seat across from him.

  


“I do apologize, though my actions were for your benefit and not your misfortune.”

  


“Ah. Your brother. You saw last night as the best chance to entice him and ensure he’d be interested and invested enough to want to learn more.”

  


Mycroft raised his eyebrow. Though he’d been working closely with Sia for several years, he still found himself surprised by her empathetic abilities and how they complimented her own vast intellect. Now that she’d met Sherlock, she not only would have a cursory understanding of his brother, she would also undoubtably have a more robust comprehension of his own—emotions. While he loosened his reign on his emotional control over the years working with her, he never directly brought his brother into conversation, nor made any mention of him at all. She was aware of the complex familial ties—having told him one day it was lit up like a Christmas display, and offering an ear should he ever wish to discuss things—but afterwards she never pried, and he never divulged. Meeting Sherlock and finally gaining a more complete view of the emotional circuit meant she knew...

  


“Oh dear Queen and Country—you told him,” he groaned.

  


“He already had the notion—he wasn’t that shocked. Well, he was shocked, but he wasn’t in denial over it, so part of him accepted it as truth.”

  


“He’ll hoard that over me for years. At least without having it confirmed he could have thought I had an ulterior motive and felt he owed me a favor, but now Pandora’s box has been opened,” he sighed.

  


Sia chuckled at that, “You two are so dysfunctional. Heaven forbid your brother learn of your affection and caring for him.”

  


“Caring is not an—“

  


“So help me, Mycroft, you finish that sentence and I’ll hex you into next week. Biggest crock of dragon dung I’ve ever heard,” Sia muttered the last sentence under her breath. “Well then, I’ll look for an opportunity to out his sentiment for you and you both can be bloody even.”

  


A gentle knock announced Penelope’s arrival as she carried in a tray with a fresh pot of tea and a cup for Sia. Mycroft and Sia extended their gratitude, and she quickly retreated to give them privacy.

  


“I suppose we should move on to business and planning for the proper introductions and initiations,” Sia said as she took a sip of her freshly brewed tea.

  


“I take it Kingsley took it well?”

  


“Hmmm,” she hummed noncommittally, “he was radiating a kaleidoscope of colours—though mostly over my independent project. Ultimately, he sees the value in what’s been proposed.”

  


“You mean to say he sees the value in your opinion and ideas,” Mycroft corrected.

  


Sia rolled her eyes, “You think I have more leverage than I do, Mycroft. He’s the Minister; he may seek counsel at times, but he’s strong and follows his own mind.”

  


“For one so perceptive into other’s affairs, you have a rather telling blind spot when it pertains to yourself.”

  


Sia shook her head and redirected the conversation, “At any rate, we managed to get the laws approved and pushed through. I put the finishing touches on the secrecy contract enchantment before I came here, and Harry is updating the rest of his department on the recent developments. We interrogated the suspect this morning, and an official investigation is being opened the day after tomorrow. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to write up in the interim, but at least I have time on my side,” she gave a cheeky grin. “All that’s left is to crash three men’s preconceived notions as to how the world works without giving them a coronary. So, pray tell, how would you recommend we do that?”

  


Mycroft finished his cup and poured himself another. “When it comes to Sherlock...”

  


#### 221B

  


“Sherlock, if you don’t sit down, you’re going to wear a hole through the rug. You do that and it’s coming out of your half the rent!” John exclaimed.

  


Sherlock had been pacing back-and-forth across the sitting room since receiving a call from Mycroft a couple hours prior to alert them that he would be joining them at the flat by six that night, and to ask that Greg be there with them for his arrival. It was the first time in all the years John knew Sherlock that he hadn’t heard a single snarky comment directed from the younger Holmes to the elder. In fact, Sherlock’s response had been leveled with brevity. Instead, his restlessness and agitation seemed to be leveled against the poor floor.

  


John himself was feeling a tad fidgety—after the prior night’s discovery that Mycroft’s apparent code to his brother was correct, and they were likely about to embark on an unprecedented opportunity...learning that there was an entire faction of people across the world who had their own separate government and laws...he wondered what differentiated them from everyone else? How did someone become a member? Were you born into it? Did they pay taxes? Did they have diplomatic immunity?

  


John shook himself out of his thoughts to look towards Greg. Of the three of them, Greg seemed to be the most in-control of his emotions, though he also hadn’t said a word beyond his ‘hellos’ from when he first got there.

  


A knock upon the door downstairs drew everyone’s attention. They heard mumbling that was unmistakably Mrs Hudson’s voice and a deeper reply that was Mycroft’s. Another voice joined the conversation that was indistinct, but recognizably female. John noticed Sherlock immediately still at the sound, until two sets of steps could be heard climbing up the staircase. Sherlock spun towards his violin and sat on one side of the sofa. Rather than murdering the instrument as he was wont to do whenever his brother came over, he was instead playing a soft tune by gently plucking the strings.

  


A gentle knock proceeded the door opening, and Mycroft stepped through, closely followed by Sia. John noticed she was dressed in vastly different attire from when they last saw her, and the effect was very becoming. She wore light, khaki-coloured dress trousers that flattered her figure and seemed to shimmer as she moved; a teal coloured button-up shirt, sleeves folded up to almost reach her elbows, flattered her copper hair and skin tone. A small bag draped over her shoulder, and she held a slim briefcase in her arms.

  


“Your landlady is a peach,” Sia said with a smile. 

  


“Did she offer to bring up biscuits and tea?” John asked knowingly.

  


Sia laughed softly, “She did; although I told her it was unnecessary, she insisted. I asked that she hold off for a bit—I didn’t think you gentlemen would care to wait much longer for us to discuss things.”

  


“What are your trousers made from?” Sherlock asked. “The fabric is too thin to be wool, angora, cashmere, mohair, camel hair, flax, or hemp. It’s too coarse a texture to be cotton, too thin a texture to be silk. One could almost mistake it as ramie for its lustre, but the fibers are indicative of animal hair, not plant based.”

  


“Still spectacular,” Sia replied with a wide grin.

  


“Please don’t encourage him,” Mycroft whined.

  


“Don’t be a killjoy, Mycroft,” Sia rolled her eyes. 

  


Sherlock’s grip slipped from his violin and a clatter of notes were heard as he grabbed it to stop it from falling. He gently set it aside, back into its case.

  


“Let’s get some paperwork signed first, and I promise to answer any and all questions you may have in due time,” Sia continued, gracefully ignoring the momentary slip-up.

  


“You may regret making that promise; my brother’s curiosity is insatiable,” Mycroft noted.

  


Sia ignored him and stepped forward. “It’s great to see you again, gentlemen,” she turned to look at each of them. “John, Greg; if it’s alright with Sherlock, would you please join him to sit on the sofa? It will probably be easier to have you all together for demonstrative purposes.”

  


Both men looked at Sherlock who merely gestured with his hand towards the open seat beside him. They crossed the distance to take the seats, then returned their attention to Sia. Mycroft took a seat in the leather chair normally occupied by Sherlock, but Sia asked, “May I?” in regards to John’s chair, and he immediately replied in the affirmative. Once everyone was situated, Sia extracted three worn-looking pieces of paper from her briefcase, along with three old-fashioned fountain pens.

  


“Gentlemen,” she began, “should you wish to be made privy of the details of what was alluded to last night, and to take part in any manner thereafter, it is required that you each sign a document binding you to our Statute of Secrecy. You do not have to sign; we can part ways, and nothing further will follow. Not all of you need to sign, but for those who do not, you will be barred from learning of anything discussed between the others.” She handed out the papers and pens to each of them.

  


“This is parchment paper, handmade from goat skin,” Sherlock commented idly. John fully expected Sherlock to erupt into a tirade in a half-second’s time and completely rebuke the notion of having to sign any kind of contract of silence, before telling Mycroft to ‘piss off.’ He was, therefore, flabbergasted when he saw Sherlock sign his name with a flourish at the bottom of his paper, without so much as looking at the words written down. He stared at Sherlock, but Sherlock merely shrugged in response, then looked back towards Sia to observe and wait. 

  


John looked down towards his own paper and began to read. He was startled to see that the words all appeared to be handwritten in a calligraphic style. He glanced through the document, then reread it more carefully. Mainly, it seemed to reiterate what Sia said, about being bound to secrecy and agreeing that nothing would be shared with anyone outside of the community, no spoken or written words, and no objects of any kind. The only thing noticeably lacking was any wording on penalty for disclosure. He looked up to Sia and mentioned such.

  


“There’s no penalty stated because after you’ve signed it, you will be physically unable to disclose anything. This is a newer method we’ve developed over the past few years for—indirect members of our community. It’s safer for us to ensure compliance, but also negates the need for drastic measures of retaliation against people who may have merely made a mistake. Regular members do not sign anything like this—they face the consequences of their actions, but for outlier people, we use this,” Sia supplied.

  


John tried to make sense of how they could physically enforce such a thing by merely signing a piece of paper, but he felt a sense of trepidation as his imagination started to get carried away.

  


“Oh, just sign the damn thing, John,” Sherlock said with a huff, and John finally did so. He looked over and saw Greg had already done so, and had been patiently waiting for him as well.

  


Sia collected each of their papers, returning them to her briefcase. She sat straight-backed in her seat and said without preamble, “Gentlemen, magic exists.”

  


Greg snorted, and John guffawed. John looked at Mycroft and said, “Crikey, Mycroft, this was some elaborate ploy you went through to mess with your brother. Couldn’t you have kept us out of it?”

  


Before Mycroft could object, however, Sherlock finally spoke, “Prove it.”

  


Sia reached over to the sleeve of her shirt and a thin, wooden-looking stick with carvings wrapped around it seemed to materialize into view. John was certain he hadn’t noticed that on her arm earlier. He looked over at Sherlock and noticed his eyes were glued to the stick and her hand holding it. He looked back toward Sia and she asked, “Is there anything in particular you would like to request? There are limitations, but if you specifically ask me to show you something, it may be easier for you to accept the reality of it, rather than have me do something on my own that you’ll question as being a mere trick.”

  


Greg and John kept quiet, certain that Sherlock should take the lead on this one. “I find myself overwhelmed with the possibilities of what could be done, and therefore unable to choose one,” Sherlock spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper.

  


Sia looked at him sympathetically. She kindly said, “Why don’t I demonstrate a simple spell that is taught to us in the first year of our schooling? It’s the Levitation Charm.”

  


Sherlock met her eyes and gave a small nod.

  


Sia nodded in return, then directed her attention towards the coffee table between them. With a flourished flick of the stick in her hand, the table suddenly started to slowly lift into the air.

  


“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST,” Greg jumped off the sofa and backed towards the wall.

  


John’s heart was pounding through his chest. He blinked a few times, then scrubbed his hand over his face. Nope—no change—the coffee table was still hovering in midair. Or rather, Levitating—the charm lived up to its name. An inappropriate giggle escaped his lips and he covered his mouth with his hand to stifle it.

  


The table slowly descended to the ground, back to its original resting place. Sherlock’s eyes followed its progression and didn’t leave after it settled still.

  


“I can demonstrate something more complicated, if you like. Transfigure the table into an animal?” Sia asked.

  


John tried to say, “Nope, no that’s quite alright,” but at the same time Sherlock spoke, “Please,” in invitation.

  


Sia gave John an apologetic little smile, but then waved the stick again in a different pattern. Before their very eyes, the table started to shrink in on itself; the center rounded out, the bottom of the legs grew paws, a wrinkled head sprouted forth, and a curly tail spiraled out the other end. Fur grew out, and before John knew it, a beefy, little bulldog was standing where the table sat prior. It gave a shake and a snort, then started sniffing the rug and moved around. It looked up and trotted over to Sia, where she began rubbing the sides of its head, then scratched its backside.

  


This time John didn’t try to subdue the cackle of laughter that projected out. The bulldog cocked its head to the side to look at him, then bounded over. John tentatively held out his hand, the dog gave it a sniff, then a lick, then it sat down next to his foot, letting him pet it behind its ears.

  


Everyone remained silent while they absorbed the ramifications of what they’d just seen. Finally, Sherlock, who’d been the least reactionary of the group asked, “What are the limitations?”

  


“Magic is a supernatural force that can alter the fabric of reality at fundamental levels. It is an energy that is interwoven within all matter. The ability to connect with and use that energy–magic–is a hereditary trait passed down from a person’s ancestors. Those who possess this ability are referred to as witches and wizards, respectfully. We attend a school of magic beginning at the age of eleven to refine our craft and learn the art and responsibilities of our power. While there, we learn a variety of magical specialties as well as general theory and the history of magic within the world.

“Magic can’t be compared to science, but it does follow some laws of physics, more specifically the Laws of Conservation of Mass and Energy. For example, vanishing an object does not make that object cease to exist, but rather into non-being, or dispersed amongst everything. Conjured items can only exist for a temporary period of time, and objects cannot be enlarged beyond a certain point before becoming unstable and exploding.

“There are a myriad of other rules and laws surrounding magical theory; some of the most important include the Rule of Conjuration: while it’s possible to conjure something out of nothing, it is far more tricky to create something to an exact specification, rather than a general one; moreover, objects so conjured tend not to be as resistant to breaking, cracking, melting, rust, and general deterioration than the natural version.

“It is impossible to resurrect the dead. By means of ghosts or through the use of certain magical artefacts, one may interact with an echo or an imprint of the deceased, but there is no manner in which a person’s soul can be returned and reanimated within their body once it has passed through the veil. It is likewise impossible to make oneself immortal, unless one makes use of a mystical object of great power to sustain life...only two forms have been known to exist, one of which is considered the darkest of magic, and the other is of exceeding rarity.

“There are five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration; food and money are the main ones from this list. It is impossible to make food out of nothing; ingredients can be summoned and manipulated, meals can be cooked and served using magic, but the items for food and the finished meal cannot be conjured from scratch.

“Those who are able to wield magic use a wand as their foci and recite an incantation, often a modified form of Latin, and sometimes specific gestures of their wand to perform spells. Spells can be cast non-verbally. It is possible to perform magic without a wand, though it is commonly less precise and powerful than magic cast with one.”

Sia then set her wand down beside her and lifted her hand towards the bulldog who had rolled onto its back to allow John access to rub its belly. The dog rolled over to its other side, and transformed back into their coffee table.

  


A heavy silence filled the air at the end of Sia’s explanation. Greg still stood by the wall, his expression of startlement having morphed into one of astonishment as Sia revealed the facets of her secret. John wondered what his own face must look like, but then he looked over to Sherlock. Sherlock sat in his thinking pose, eyes distant and unfocused on the room’s current occupants. 

  


Sia looked to Mycroft, but he merely held up a hand in abeyance. Several long seconds followed before the silence was finally shattered. 

  


“I’ll need access to any and all available materials of reading, starting with magical theory and the subjects taught within school. I’ll also require someone to be available at my whim to answer adequately and comprehensively any questions I have following my research—preferably yourself, since you appear to be quite learned and proficient in skill, and better able to grasp and explain the complex intricacies and direction my inquiries will lead into these subject matters,” Sherlock began rambling on as he jumped out of his seat and proceeded to pace anew across the floor.

  


Before anyone else could get a word in edgewise, a small knock resounded the door and a “Yoo-Hoo!” was heard as Mrs Hudson came through, tray in-hand filled with tea and biscuits.

  


“Ah, Mrs Hudson, your timing is impeccable,” Sherlock strode over to the elder woman and directed her by her elbow towards the sitting room.

  


“Oh, Sherlock, I came by to drop off this set for you and your guests—just this once, mind you—heaven knows you boys never have enough in your pantry to share,” she set the tray down on the previously transformed coffee table.

  


“Why, Mrs Hudson—were you aware that magic exists?” Sherlock asked. John nearly choked on his tongue—leave it to Sherlock to already be testing the magical bounds of his contract.

  


“What, Sherlock, dear? Magic? Oh of course, dearie, my first husband was a wizard,” Mrs Hudson replied wistfully. “I’ll never forget the first night he introduced a bit of magic in the bedroom...that spell was always my favorite; he’d have me begging for him to use it on me every night thereafter.” John felt his face burn.

  


“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. That will be all,” Sherlock tried to shoo her away, a put-out look upon his face. The git was probably disappointed to hear she already knew about the world they’d only just become aware of...that, or he was upset to be unable to test what would happen to prevent him from disclosing magic to someone who didn’t already know about it...maybe both.

  


“Oh dearie, are you a witch?” Mrs Hudson ignored Sherlock and looked at Sia.

  


“Yes ma’am, I am,” Sia smiled back.

  


“If it’s not too impolite of me to ask, would you mind popping my hip back into place for me? It’s been giving me such a bother for years now, but the doctors want to charge a small fortune to fix it! I don’t know how they expect a lady of my age to afford such things. Besides, surgery is so invasive, I can’t be laid up for weeks on end while I heal, how would these boys ever feed themselves?” Mrs Hudson shook her head.

  


Sia’s smile got wider, “It would be my pleasure to help, ma’am.” She picked her wand back up from the side of her seat and gave it a simple flick towards the elder lady’s right hip, and a small ‘pop’ could be heard.

  


Mrs Hudson’s face radiated joy and she gave a couple experimental twists of her body. “Oh, thank you, dearie! You’re such a polite young lady. Don’t you let these hooligans bully you around. And don’t take any shit from Sherlock. You put him back in his place if he tries to sass you.” Sherlock’s face looked incredulous at that. “Why don’t you stop by my flat before you leave and I’ll pack you up some of my lemon scones to take with you? It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

  


“Yes ma’am, and I promise I’ll do so on all accounts,” Sia gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  


“There’s a good girl,” Mrs Hudson ambled back out the door, a new spring in her step. John stared after her.

  


“As simple as that, and she’s right as rain. That hip’s been giving her pain for years. What did you do?” he asked with wonder.

  


“‘Metatópiskey.’ A healing spell I invented for displaced joints or fractures. It also heals the cause of the displacement, so her arthritis in that area should be cleared up.”

  


“You can invent spells?” Sherlock asked with intrigue.

  


Sia merely gave a sly smile and said, “We’ll dive deeper into that tomorrow. For now, your brother and I already anticipated your desire to learn as much as you can as soon as you can. I’ve brought a trunk full of all the books required for students throughout their tenure in school, as well as supplemental volumes. I’ll return this time tomorrow to set you up with the Floo network. In two days’ time we’ll be opening a case to investigate what I found at the club.”

  


She reached into her purse and pulled out what looked like a small box. She set it on the ground and with a wave of her wand, the box started to expand until it became a full sized trunk. John and Greg gaped at it, and Sia gestured to Sherlock to open it. As he did so, John and Greg reluctantly edged closer to peer inside. It was a room. A bloody room. A ladder extended downwards from a side of the trunk into a pit, and the space inside was roughly 4m x 4m. Three of the walls were lined with bookshelves filled with books; a squashy loveseat and a table lined the other, and a door could be seen next to the table. A large window behind the sofa showed a beautiful field that spanned for acres, the setting sun glistening across the tall grass as though it were aflame. Upon the table sat a peculiar clock, the hands of which were set to 11:59, while the second hand appeared stuck, continually clicking back-and-forth.

  


“It’s a freaking TARDIS,” Greg sputtered. John felt a bubble of hysteria build up in his chest.

  


“I had to pull a lot of strings to get permission to set this up, but I managed to buy you time. Once you are inside, you will have twenty-four hours in real-time in which time will be in stasis and slowed down within that space. When the clock starts to move forward, you’ll know that the charm has worn off. It should last for roughly a ‘week.’ The door leads to a small bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen,” Sia explained. John tried to wrap his head around what she was saying. He understood all the words individually, but combined they were inconceivable.

  


“I know this is overwhelming and ridiculous and insane and incomprehensible. For a man of science and for practical and pragmatic men, this can seem like too much. But you’re all also brave, inquisitive, adventure-seekers, and what you’ve been invited to discover is wondrous, fantastical, whimsical—extraordinary,” Sia radiated sincerity and warmth, and John found his trepidation start melting away by her charisma. “Now, before Mycroft and I take our leave, may I please speak with Sherlock privately for a moment?” She turned to him with a questioningly look, patiently awaiting his response. His face was a blank mask of nonchalance while he stepped towards her and they headed to the kitchen.

  


Mycroft, whom John realized had been quietly standing but a few feet behind them, stepped forward and addressed them, “John. Gregory. How are you—acclimating?”

  


“Bloody hell—to say it’s a shock would be putting it mildly, but in all honesty, I feel like a little kid who’s been told Saint Nick really does exist and he’s going to bring me all the toys I’ve ever asked for,” Greg’s eyes lit up as he answered.

  


John shook his head. “I’ve always had a hunch that things existed beyond our immediate comprehension...some of the things I’ve seen while on tour and visiting some of the locals and tribes of some places—well, they opened your eyes a bit to the possibilities of there being untold forces out there. Seeing it so blatantly in person though...I keep expecting to wake up at any second, you know?”

  


“Indeed, I do,” Mycroft replied frankly.

  


“I can’t quite get a read on how Sherlock’s taking it,” John admittedly worriedly.

  


“My brother is truly a man of science—dedicated to facts, tangible proofs and systematic truths. Yet, as I’ve told you once before, when he was a child, he wanted to be a pirate. While his analytical mind is likely reeling at the revelation and destruction of his carefully constructed view of the world, I would venture to say his “inner child” is rejoicing at learning that there’s still a great mystery out there for him to dive into. You know how dearly he adores acquiring new knowledge.” At that, John saw an expression cross Mycroft’s face that he’d never seen there before—something...sweet...a fondness for his younger brother. It vanished quickly as movement from the kitchen announced the return of the other occupants in the flat, and Mycroft stepped forward to join Sia by her side.

  


“Brother mine, John, Gregory–I wish you the best of luck in your studies. Sia, if you would be so kind as to take me back to my office, I’d be much obliged.”

  


“Don’t tell me you were called back in,” she replied with a frown.

  


“The hazards of having a minor position in the British Government,” he replied with a smirk.

  


Sia rolled her eyes, “Not even commenting on that one. Gentlemen, I’ll see you tomorrow, though it will feel like a week’s time to you in the trunk. You don’t have to stay in there the whole time, but keep in mind that if you get out and return, time will have exponentially passed in your leave.” She stepped forward next to Mycroft and held out her arm, which he took. “Oh, and please apologize to Mrs Hudson for me for not stopping by for her scones, but tell her I’ll be sure to do so when I return.” With a slight twist of her body, they disappeared from view, only a slight snapping sound following in their wake.

  


John looked to Greg, and then at Sherlock. He wasn’t sure which one of the three of them started laughing first—low rumbles, high-pitched giggles, deep chuckles—he just knew that the laughter slowly spread out and grew into great belly-laughs; within a few minutes, they were sprawled out on the floor overcome in hysterical laughter, finally having a release for all the emotions the night had brought forth.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Yellowbeard

  


When Sherlock was a child, life was a wonderment of uncharted and unexplored potential. Untold treasures of possibility beckoned him like a siren, awaiting his discovery, and the journey to find them was a prismatic, swashbuckling adventure that illuminated his imagination—until the harshness of reality violently stripped him of any such foolish notions. The death of his first mate, Redbeard, left a hollow void that stole life of its color. Cold Logic, with its objective reasoning, became his mistress—she whispered promises to offer him a safe harbor to dock his heart while he cocooned within her embrace, as long as he only ever sailed under her bleak monochrome of black-and-white. And so he did. The great ocean of life was an abysmal red tide of quantifiable facts, amassed to follow him as a safety net as he drifted out to sea. The fog of his apathy the only other constant companion as he ventured forth under the endless cloak of a pitch-black night.

Occasionally, he’d spot a rare whale of mystery, and a comet of blinding light would streak across the sky, illuminating his path as the winds of intrigue caught his sails to propel him forward and give chase. He would brave the waves that crested in the whale’s wake as he hunted that flighty temptress of adventure. All-too-soon, though, the whale would be caught (only a handful of times had the whale ever managed to almost swallow him), the glow from the comet would disappear, and he would be cast back into darkness, seemed all-the-more oppressive as his eyes adjusted to the loss of light. It was after these quests that the storms would begin to roll in...what would start as a drizzle and mist of disquiet, would inevitably cascade into a violent torrential downpour of banality and crushing swells of ennui that threatened to capsize him, to drown him in the depths of his despair, until the next great whale was spotted, giving him purpose and drive again. An incessant cycle commenced.

This desolate existence carried on until one day, he found a fellow castaway floating out at sea in a rudderless boat. He threw the skipper a lifesaver and helped pull him to his own vessel. As the sailor climbed aboard, he brought with him the dawn...the sun breached the horizon for the first time in years, blinding in its intensity, and painted the sky a dazzling array of colours Sherlock had forgotten existed. This sailor’s tale was that of a former Captain, a doctor and a soldier who’d been in battle, had seen bloodshed, and experienced countless losses in his journeys. But none of the losses had left as deep a mark as the waylaying of his purpose and duty had.

Together, these two outcasts formed an unbreakable bond, finding new vigour through their companionship and partnership. Night still fell for Sherlock, but now the moon shone and starlight was visible again, helping guide his way to safe passage. Even the passing storms lessened in their intensity and duration, for the sun would always rise again and chase away the clouds and rain. Yet he was still lost at sea, always looking to the horizon, ever chasing after the next elusive whale, only to be disappointed by its commonality upon closer inspection.

  


Then one day he spotted land.

  


#### Renovations

  


Sherlock stood at the threshold of his childhood bedroom door within his mind palace. The door was weathered from neglect and disuse, rusty chains and locks were strewn across, having barred himself from ever accidentally opening it over the years. But as he reached for the handle, he thought– _magic is **real**_ –and the chains fell to the floor in a heap. Gingerly, he turned the doorknob and pushed forward.

  


His old bedroom was a vision frozen in time. Grey walls were littered with drawings and lined with shelves full of oddities, clothes and costumes were strewn across the hardwood flooring, the midnight blue bed comforter was tangled in a mess of pillows, and instruments and dioramas took up every inch of available space atop his dressers.

  


Sherlock crossed the room to stand in front of a door that in reality had been his closet, but in his mind palace...

He opened the door, and shielded his eyes against the glaring light. A beach stretched out before him, and in the distance he could see the ocean’s waves crash upon the shore. Sunlight glistened over the water like thousands of diamonds. A massive ship lay washed ashore, stranded upon the beach. Back ways a bit the sand gave way to a jungle full of palm trees, ferns, and foliage. A small shack lay at the edge of the jungle, shabby and in disarray with the door unhinged and holes in the thatched roof. It would never do for the long term, but for now, it was as good a place as any to start.

He carefully walked towards the shack, unaccustomed to the way the sand shifted beneath his feet, and once inside, he envisioned a table and book stand. Once formed, he began carefully placing items into their respective places. With the items carefully deposited, he contemplated what Althenalextasia had in mind when she offered to help him accommodate his mind palace to acclimatize the new influx of data. They’d both agreed it would be better for him to lay the initial foundation for a paradigm shift of this level, but she told him that once he had, and once he made it through his initial research, they could move on to a more efficient manner for him to acquire and absorb knowledge of the magical world.

His mind thrilled in anticipation.

  


#### Flow State

  


“I still can’t believe we’re in a room inside a trunk,” John muttered.

  


“Yeah, well, as long as we don’t see Mr Tumnus’s horned head out that window,” Lestrade responded.

  


“Who’s Mr Tumnus?” Sherlock asked.

  


“Look who’s decided to join us! We crawl into this bloody piece of luggage and you up and phase out on us into your bloody mind palace,” came John’s scathing reply.

  


“Really, John, there’s no need to get testy. I needed to set up my new sets of data.” Sherlock removed a vial of dark umber liquid from the pocket of his trousers.

  


“Don’t tell me you nicked that from Sia?” John asked.

  


“Certainly not; she gave this to me.”

  


“What is it?” Lestrade took a step closer to get a better look.

  


“Apparently it’s a concoction of her own creation. A ‘potion’ as they are called.”

  


John eyed it warily, “A potion? Like, ‘double, double, toil and trouble’ potion? What’s it supposed to do?”

  


Sherlock gave him a bizarre look. “You and your pop culture references,” he shook his head. “Mycroft told her of my propensity to skip sleep when I have a case afoot, and he alluded that I would do the same to maximize the time I have available to read these books. She created an amalgamation between several different pre-existing potions, along with powdered ‘Hodag’ horn, that would, as she put it, _safely_ keep me awake for the next six days, without any ill-effect.”

  


“Christ. Please don’t tell me you actually intend to take that. Don’t get me wrong—she’s incredibly nice and all, but how can we take her word that you won’t suffer some sort of reaction to this? And six days without sleep?! There’s no way that can be healthy, not even with magic,” John protested.

  


Sherlock was still staring intently at the bottle in his hand. He looked up a John and said, “For the sake of science, I _have_ to take it, John. Rest assured, she told me she makes this at varying strengths for herself at times, and has been doing so for almost two decades—I need to ask her for more information on that. She explained everything quite thoroughly though, and directed me towards the books I can find each separate, original potion from. The potions used include a wit-sharpening potion to keep my mind in top form, a memory potion to give me easier access to my memories, an invigoration draught to boost energy, and a ‘Draught of Peace’ which relieves anxiety and agitation; the powdered Hodag horn can keep the drinker awake for seven days on its own, but her combination of potions interact together so the drinker can study and think intensely for several days, but avoid the stress and negative side effects that sleep deprivation can cause. I’m admittedly very curious to see how this works. You’ll also be happy to note, she required me to give her my word that I would eat regularly during the time while under its effect, and that I take the last day before her return to fully sleep. She insisted that skipping food would counteract against some of the ingredients, and until I can experiment further in the future, I will take her word on it for now.”

  


John and Lestrade both were staring at Sherlock. He rolled his eyes, “Is it really so hard to follow along with what I’ve said? Perhaps she should have made extra wit-sharpening potions for the two of you, then maybe we could have normal conversations without you staring at me with blank looks of incomprehension on your faces.”

  


Lestrade snorted, “If you’re the poster child for ‘normal,’ God help us all.”

  


John just shook his head, “I still don’t like it, we don’t know what kind of reaction magic has on magicless people, but you’ve seldom listened to me before; you’re unlikely to start now.”

  


“John, you seem to be much more apprehensive now than you were earlier. In fact, I’ve observed that your behavior appears overall calmer when in the presence of Althenalextasia. Why do you think that is?” Sherlock asked.

  


John startled, “What are you talking about, Sherlock?”

  


Sherlock scoffed in annoyance, “I’m not repeating myself, John. I’m not trying to make some comment on _you_ , I’m merely observing and making note of a behavioral change and trying to determine the cause of the stimulus. You become much calmer when in dangerous situations, yet before today we had no way of knowing how dangerous Althenalextasia could be...in fact, we still don’t know, per se. So while we can’t rule out your intuition since you have displayed an uncanny ability in that regard before, we must also allow the thought that something else is causing it. So we look for more data. I, myself, have noticed that there appear to be several moments during my interactions with Althenalextasia where a marked shift in my—emotional state has occurred, in that I felt more relaxed and calm, whereas prior I was feeling tensed in some manner. Each time was rather subtle, but noticeable upon later review.”

  


John appeared to contemplate that for a moment before responding, “Actually, you might be onto something. Now that you bring it to my attention, I do recall there being a moment yesterday where I felt myself calm down significantly...it was near the end of her visit, after she showed us this trunk. It was starting to feel like too much, you know, and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. But then she empathised with us and hearing her voice that—expressing her understanding of what we were feeling and validating it, but then putting it into another perspective...I remember feeling caught up in her charisma and it felt soothing.”

  


“I felt that too. I wasn’t feeling all that anxious though, more excited, I think, but it was a bit much to take in all at once. Then around the same time as you, I felt a sense of ease, as though a burden of all those emotions just loosened up a bit,” Lestrade chimed in.

  


“You don’t think she manipulated our emotions, do you? I’m not sure how I feel about that,” John sounded worried.

  


“I’m not sure;” Sherlock admitted, “as one who is unfamiliar with the nuances of personal feeling, I’m not the best judge of what is considered normal to others. And as we are new to the possibilities of what these magic-wielders are capable of, I cannot make a solid deduction. But I’m gathering observations of note to reflect on later after gaining more facts.” He uncorked the bottle still in his hands and brought it to his nose to give it a sniff. He noted the smells were unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Without further ado, he downed the bottle in a few gulps, and his body gave a shiver.

  


John’s eyes widened, “Are you ok? How do you feel?”

  


“John, this is extraordinary! I feel that I am in a perfect ‘flow state’ of heightened consciousness. And as I’m thinking of how I want to organize my memories in my mind palace, I’m actually able to visualize inside of it with my open eyes. It’s incredible. I do not wish to waste a moment and desire to get started reading posthaste, yet I also don’t feel an overwhelming sense of immediate urgency behind those desires—rather, I feel confident that I shall achieve as much as I can with the time I have.”

  


John and Lestrade looked intrigued, yet John also commented, “Good. That’s good. I’d still like to monitor you every few hours though, to ensure nothing goes sideways.”

  


“Fear not, John. Why don’t you check the kitchen and see what food we have; you can bring some tea back while you’re there. Now, there was a book that caught my eye earlier; Lestrade, hand me the book on the left case behind you, fourth shelf down, eighth book in from the left, entitled: ‘ _Hogwarts, A History_.’”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Antici—potion

  


Living inside a magicked trunk for a week was not the most bizarre thing Greg had ever experienced. The winner of that honorary title, thus far in his life, went to the experience of living with an incredibly pleasant, altogether well behaved Sherlock for a week. He’d heard plenty of horror stories from John over the years while the two shared a pint at the pub. He’d fully expected the week to grate on his every last nerve. Instead, the entire six days of Sherlock’s wakefulness was not mired with complaints of John and him thinking/breathing/speaking too loudly, nor completely ignoring them while he was absorbed in either reading or thinking—rather, he managed to effortlessly switch between focusing intently and responding when spoken to, and sometimes even conversing of his own accord. He ate whenever and whatever food was placed before him (that was quite a discovery—to find several different kinds of foods from sandwiches to casseroles inside the fridge that would replenish themselves upon removal, as well as a most delicious drink that was butterscotch in flavour). When Sherlock read that the magic school, Hogwarts, would interfere with electronics because of the high concentration of magic, he pulled out his phone to test it (made them do the same) and found the battery severely drained and all functionality with internet, texting, or calling unable to work...he didn’t even pitch a fit—merely kept reading.

  


John, it seemed, didn’t know whether to be elated, or scared. He kept telling Greg that while he was ecstatic by his flatmate’s civility and especially by his change in eating patterns, he was afraid that aliens had switched his personality instead. Greg would just laugh at that, and tell John to relax and hold judgement. Today was the last day, after all, and Sherlock was sound asleep in the bedroom. That, at least, John didn’t seem to worry over, as he said he was accustomed to Sherlock doing much the same after binge-waking for days.

  


He and John, while not getting through nearly the same volume of books as Sherlock had, still managed to get through quite a decent-sized stack of them, even while taking regular breaks to rest their old eyes. Sherlock would recommend they read particular books after he was finished with them, and since he would get through several times as many before they did, they were able to take turns reading different ones he’d pointed out.

  


He found it odd to realize that he felt a sense of normalcy this many days into it. Sure, he was feeling a bit stir-crazy being cooped up this long, but overall the whole magic thing seemed to be sinking in ok. He’d read a new book and feel amazed by its contents, but it didn’t feel as surreal as it had at first. Maybe that’s what happens when you live in a space for a week that defies the laws of physics—or maybe it’s a combination of living it, yet having a breather to be removed from it directly being performed in front of you. Or something like that. There was still so much he didn’t understand or know about, but he was looking forward to finding out.

  


#### Reflections

  


By the time they finished their stay inside the time-manipulated magical trunk and the clock on the table started to move forward, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had all moved onto a feeling of fragile acceptance. The calm before the storm, as it were. As they climbed the ladder back out into the sitting room of their flat, they heard a voice ask, “Would any of you care for a lemon scone? I picked these up from Mrs Hudson on my way up...they’re delicious!”

  


Althenalextasia sat in John’s seat, a tray of tea and scones perched on the neighboring table. She wore an expression of excitement upon her face and asked in a rush, “How was it? The trunk, the books, all of it?” Her face was positively aglow.

  


Sherlock took stock of his physical sensations to note that he felt a slight tingling sensation prickling his skin, and a slightly elevated heart rate—the usual markers that indicated his own feelings of anticipated excitement. Before he could comment, John answered first.

  


“Whatever you gave Sherlock, that was—that was unexpectedly delightful. I’m still not sure how I feel about him staying awake for that long, but I regularly monitored his vitals and everything checked out ok. He was much better behaved than he normally is when skipping sleep.”

  


“You told me you created that potion whilst in school; could you elaborate?” Sherlock asked.

  


Althenalextasia obliged, “I was well familiar with the experience of missing sleep because I was too absorbed in a project that I lost track of time. I began to notice how detrimental that could be, however, as attention, alertness, reaction time, memory, reasoning skills, and creative thinking all suffer when we don’t get enough sleep. Not everyone needs the same amount of sleep at night, but to forgo it completely is unhealthy and unwise.

“The Wideye potion was popular in school, particularly during finals week and especially during O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. exams, but I thought that something better could be made to ensure a more well-rounded experience. I experimented and my potions teacher assisted me when I explained my idea to him. When I finally perfected it to achieve the results I wanted, he gave me a few tips for better taste and less time to brew. It was an immediate hit within the student body. I was thirteen at the time, taking approximately fifth through seventh year studies.”

  


“Approximately?” John asked.

  


“My study ‘program’ went a bit differently than others while in school,” Althenalextasia merely replied with a shrug.

  


“You were in advanced placement, for lack of a better term?” John persisted.

  


Sherlock noticed Althenalextasia’s hesitation. She was confident in her abilities, and openly admitted to her invention of spells and potions, which he’d come to learn through his reading was not an easy nor common thing for witches and wizards to do, yet she was modest and avoided speaking about herself in-depth boastfully.

  


She finally responded, “I was ravenous to learn all that I could when I found out I was a witch. My parents were very supportive, they always had been in regards to my learning, and they bought me every book that I grabbed from Diagon Alley before attending my first year at Hogwarts. As I’ve been very blessed in my life to be able to grasp concepts quickly and without much effort, I very quickly learned that even though I had no knowledge of magic to begin with, what I was learning wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to satisfy my hunger, and it was not enough of a challenge. When classes started, I pillaged through the library every free moment I had available. I practiced everything I read about, and by halfway through the year, I read through and could perform every spell for the next several years of the curriculum.

“I started to feel frustrated though, as I kept having a plethora of ideas on ways to make things better, or of different spells that should exist but didn’t. So I started making my own. The teachers weren’t aware yet at the time, and they couldn’t understand why I aced every quiz and test, but never did any homework. I didn’t much care what my grades were, just that I could keep learning and trying new things. Finally, one of my favorite teachers caught me making a completely different potion in class than what we were assigned to do. At first, he was furious, but when he told me to explain myself, I told him an idea I had for a potion that I was attempting to create and that I was doing it there in class for safety reasons just in case it went awry. He got very quiet, and told me to meet with the headmaster that night. I remember feeling fraught with worry that I was going to be expelled, but when I arrived, the headmaster was beaming at me. We had a very long discussion that night. He had each of the teachers take turns to join us, and each one would ask me questions about their subjects, had me demonstrate my spellwork for spells we hadn’t yet been taught in class but that I’d learned through my independent reading, then asked me to demonstrate my comprehension behind them, my creations thus far, and to explain my ideas for what I wished to create next.

“When we finally finished that night, the headmaster told me—well, he told me that I kept breaking the mould. At any rate, by the next week following that meeting, my teachers set me up with a different timetable. When Christmas break finished, I started to attend the older years’ classes and met with each teacher independently weekly to study whatever I wanted while under supervision and to receive feedback when needed. It was really rather thoughtful and kind of them all to devote their own time like that to assist me. I’ve always retained an immense sense of gratitude towards them for all they did for me.

“As I got older, in some classes I spent more and more time doing independent research and experimentation once I’d learned everything that the curriculum was set to teach. The school board refused to let me take my O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s until I was at least thirteen, then fifteen years of age, so I took on other activities to fill in my time, such as assisting the teachers and tutoring students. Things, things got a bit...wonky towards the last couple years there.”

  


John looked back-and-forth between Althenalextasia and Sherlock, “You were like the magical version of Sherlock as a kid, in a way.”

  


“Except she wasn’t bullied by her peers,” Sherlock said in an even voice.

  


Althenalextasia stared at him in a manner he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t quite pity, it was sympathetic understanding. “I wasn’t bullied, but I was ostracized, at first. I stood out from the student body on my very first day...I, um, I wasn’t sorted into a house...or rather, I was given equitable access to all the houses. I became a pariah immediately thereafter. People only started warming up to me when I began tutoring at thirteen...I found I had a great joy in helping others and great skill in understanding them, and was able to tailor my teaching methods to suit each individual.”

  


“Damn, I would have deduced you to be in Ravenclaw, possibly Gryffindor. The head Auror, Mr Potter was Gryffindor, and Penelope was Ravenclaw, were they not?” Sherlock asked.

  


“You’re right.”

  


“There’s been five previous students in the entire history of the school who were omnisorted, but I was unable to find any discernible pattern that linked them....there was a variety of sexes, magical parentage. The last such person was nearly two centuries ago.”

  


“My former headmaster, Dumbledore, did as much research as he could after I’d been sorted. He was able to find a pattern that ultimately proved true for me. At the time, he asked me what the sorting hat and I discussed, and I told him that it asked which house I would like to join—I’d told it that I wanted to be part of all of them, that I saw value in each of their attributes, and would rather grow to be well-balanced in nature by embracing all facets of character, than to rely too heavily upon just a few. I was given my own room but allowed access to each houses’ common room of the school. I wasn’t allowed to participate in house points nor in Quidditch.”

  


“What was the pattern?” John asked enthralled. “I mean...if it’s alright to ask.”

  


“I have a rare gift of being an Empath. It didn’t fully manifest until I was fifteen. For others, it didn’t manifest until they were of age..seventeen, but it seemed to do so early with me after some emotionally unpleasant events triggered it. I am able to see and perceive people’s emotions at varying degrees. I sometimes get a physical impression of the emotions, but usually I see emotions as colours...it’s like an aural field around people. There’s a depth and great nuance to it that’s taken me years to understand more fully, and I’m still learning—different colours at varying intensities on different locations at different depth placements.”

  


“You—you can read people’s emotions. Does that mean you can influence them as well?” Lestrade asked.

  


“I’m—uncertain. I’ve been told I can have a very calming effect on people...which in some situations, it is my desire to soothe, but I’ve never purposefully tried to manipulate anyone, and never have any desire to test my abilities or try to.”

  


“That would be a waste. You owe it to the scientific method to research it fully.”

  


“I can appreciate where you’re coming from, Sherlock. But you must understand, in the Wizarding world, there are some very dark forms of Magic. Manipulating someone’s emotions without their knowledge or consent to make them feel differently than whatever their own emotions may be...whatever their personal truth of reality is at that moment...it rings a similar chord to what some of those darker spells can do. Dumbledore prepared me as best he could when he suspected that I would become an Empath—unfortunately there isn’t much information out there pertaining to it—what he did find, he passed on to me after his untimely death, and he confided that he thought the dark wizard, Grindelwald, that he defeated in the 40’s may have been an Empath to some degree. His ability to compel people to his cause, his charisma and charm—a lot of people who became supporters of his weren’t bad people. But they also weren’t mind-controlled through the Imperious Curse. So what caused them to follow him and his heinous beliefs? A power like that is too great a danger.”

  


#### Heritage

  


Sherlock was itching to move the discussion along to another topic; he’d made a connection from his research, and was aching to get confirmation.

  


“Yes, Sherlock?” asked Althenalextasia. Odd, he didn’t think he’d spoken aloud—oh. Hmmm—as uncanny as when he does it to others. This has possibilities though...they could develop a system of nonverbal communication the likes of what he and his brother had, or even he and John. “And now you’re feeling mischievous and innovative. Just what is it you’re planning?”

  


“A methodology for another time. But I have been meaning to ask you about your necklace.”

  


“Ah. Yes. That. I suppose it was inevitable,” she replied resignedly. “What have you deduced?”

  


“My previous observations and my collection of new data have provided me with sufficient evidence to deduce that each stone within your pendant belonged to a founding member of the Hogwarts school. Furthermore, as my earlier observations had led me to remark that it was a piece that you inherited—a statement you did not deny when presented to you—I can confidently say that you are the direct descendant of both Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor.  
“That’s not everything, though. Before you revealed the truth of magic to us, I did research into your name. Quite a unique first name—your parents were rather indecisive I might say—but your last name has more prominence. None of the books available to us went into much detail on some of the more illustrious members of your community, which was quite surprising in the case of Merlin, whose name I’ve heard used in an expletive manner, and whom even nonmagical people have legends of—no matter how skewed they may be from the truth. Yet by the delightful power of Google, I was able to find that Merlin had many forms of his name, his original being Merlinus Ambrosius, translating to Myrddin Emrys in Welsh. Your ring is made of English Oak, is it not? I mistakenly thought it to be petrified wood, but more importantly, I was unable to understand how it could be shaped as it is...for it’s not carved into that shape. Instead, it was originally a piece of wood shaped very much like your wand, that was magicked smaller and bent into its current shape to fit as a ring. I am of the belief that you are also a direct descendant of Merlin, and that you wear his wand as a ring and thus, as another symbol of your lineage, for you wear no other pieces of jewelry upon your person.”

  


Althenalextasia was looking down at her hands, idly turning the ring around her finger, her shoulders hunched inward. In a voice that was so soft he almost didn’t hear it, she said, “It all seems like too much, doesn’t it?” She sounded—broken. Strange—Sherlock didn’t know what to think about that. He’d given thousands of deductions to people and received an immense range of responses and reactions to them, yet he’d never regretted giving them, not even when he’d nearly been shot as a result...on several different occasions. But now...he didn’t think he was experiencing regret, but it was something related perhaps. Seeing her despondent and melancholic countenance left a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  


She looked up, meeting his eyes, and gave a small smile. “Empathy, Sherlock. You’re feeling empathy. I appreciate it, though you did nothing wrong. I must ask, however, that all of you please refrain from revealing that last part of Sherlock’s deduction to anyone. Only a handful of people are aware, and I’d rather not have it become common knowledge. The Wizarding community knows of my lineage to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor...once I turned of age, the goblins of Gringotts made an announcement about it—quite a shock to find out that way, I’ll tell you that—but I only learned of my bloodline to Merlin while I was traveling the world in my early adulthood, when I stumbled upon a crystal cave in the wilderness of Great Britain, where olde magic still has a foothold upon the land...a story I’ll share another time,” she added before Sherlock could ask.

  


A small, awkward cough from John reminded Sherlock of his presence, “I don’t mean to pry, but why is your genealogy something you feel the need to hide? The fact that you’re descended from three of the most prolific members of your community throughout all of its history—that’s amazing.” Sherlock couldn’t help but agree.

  


“It’s—complicated. The Wizarding community has fought throughout its seclusion from the nonmagical one against internal prejudices. There are many old bloodlines of wizard families that believe that wizards are superior to the nonmagical, and that dilution of Wizarding blood throughout the years is tantamount to tainted blood. Wizards and witches who are born from nonmagical parents are considered lesser, and those who are born from magical families, yet are unable to do magic themselves, are thought of as a tragedy. People thought that Ravenclaw’s and Gryffindor’s lines died out centuries ago, when in fact they continued on through those who could not perform magic, whom I call ‘benigns,’ and later through nonmagicals. Only the goblins knew the truth of the continuation of their lineage, but since no nonmagical could ever claim their heritage, they didn’t see any reason to contradict what the community thought–until magic finally showed up again, through me. Bound by their duty, the goblins were obligated to inform me when I came of age. There were a lot of mixed reactions to the announcement and the revelation of the truth behind their bloodlines. It came about just a few years after the fall of the last dark wizard, who had—well...that’s a very long story that deserves to be told on its own. I will merely say that the timing was not the best, even though the community was working hard to rid itself of the old prejudices. As it so happens, I had planned to travel the world and visit other magical places and communities when I became of age, so at least I was able to escape the bulk of the scrutiny upon myself for several years.

“To be thoroughly honest, it’s also a bit—overwhelming—to have such powerful names to live up to. While I believe in myself and my abilities, I’m also only human, and at times I’ve felt weighed down with the burden of expectation—afraid to let down my ancestors and become a disappointment to their name.

“As for Merlin, he was exceedingly powerful. He ensured his bloodline would stay hidden and would never be able to be traced throughout the ages. I likely would never have found out had it not been for my youthful wanderlust to learn and study foreign magicks.”

  


Sherlock ruminated over everything she said before announcing, “You’re the last of your bloodline from all of those families. Your parents died while you were at school, leaving you an orphan, and with no other family, you feel it is your duty and obligation to carry on their name and prestige. Likely most of your community feels the same, what with how important bloodlines are to them, and there is probably a great deal of pressure surrounding you to marry and procreate. Yet you remain unattached, even though you are in the optimal age range for childbearing. Why is that? As someone whom is married to The Work, I can relate to a disinterest in romantic entanglements that would distract from it, and while you have thus far displayed a similar passion and devotion to your career, your biological and emotional nature seem much more predisposed towards an underlying desire towards procreation than my own. So your biological, emotional, and social sense of obligation direct you to continue your bloodline, yet you go against that nature and refrain from doing so. We can subject that either you are incapable of bearing...”

  


“ **SHERLOCK!** ” before Sherlock could continue further, John yelled his name.

  


Oh. He observed Althenalextasia. Her face was pale, her eyes were wide and shining yet tight at the corners, her body appeared to be trembling slightly, her breathing was shallow, and—well that’s a most bizarre sight...the visible areas of skin of her arms seemed to shimmer and flicker, as though an electrical glitch was malfunctioning. Sherlock caught glimpses of long and wide streaks and valleys of silvery white on her arms as they filtered in-and-out of view—he filed that away for later review, but focused back on the implications of the present issue.

  


Althenalextasia stood up shakily from her seat and in a quiet voice devoid of any emotion said, “Please excuse me for a minute.” She walked over to the bathroom and stepped inside, softly closing the door behind her.

  


“Bloody, buggering _hell_ , Sherlock,” John swore in a vehement whisper, “do you never stop and think through what you’re saying to someone? She could have cursed you or blasted you into bits where you sat—would have served you right, mind you.”

  


An oppressively uncomfortable sensation flooded over Sherlock. A tightness and slight burning sensation filled the back of his throat, a heaviness sat in his diaphragm, and his face felt a flash of heat. He didn’t understand why he was starting to have all these physiological reactions as of late—perhaps he was getting sick.

  


“Yes. It appears ‘a bit not good’ would be an understatement,” Sherlock murmured in assent.

  


#### Scars

  


Sia looked at her reflection through the mirror, her hands grasping the edges of the basin for support. Tears finally spilled over to start their journey over her cheekbones and down her face before dripping into the abyss below. She took a deep breath before reaching into her pocket to extract a vial, which she brought up to her face to collect the droplets—might as well not let them go to waste, not when they could be helpful to others.

Finally settled down, she looked at her arms, the evidence of her own personal tragedy visible again after her emotional upset. She cast another glamour to conceal the marks, then steadied herself to return to the sitting room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
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#### Conectomentes

  


After Althenalextasia’s return to the room, John and Lestrade excused themselves to venture outside for fresh air. Lestrade also wanted to stop by his house, for even though he’d only been gone for a day in ‘real-time,’ he wanted to check over everything, and John offered to join him to stretch his legs. Althenalextasia bade them farewell and told them she’d see them the following day when the briefing on the investigation would commence.

  


Left alone, Sherlock awkwardly tried to express his discontent at his actions, “I let my words supersede my mental processing of the implications of what I was saying. As such, I should not have voiced a subject matter that was sensitive and personal in nature, for doing so crossed several boundaries of social interaction.”

  


Althenalextasia seemed to ponder over that for a moment before concluding, “I suppose it’s better to understand and relay what one has made a mistake in, rather than glibly saying ‘I’m sorry’—although the best apologies contain a combination of the expression and the explanation. Regardless, I can see the truth of your intentions and I appreciate it. We can all be forgiven of our ignorances—how else are we ever to learn? Though now that you are aware, please do not ask me for further explanation pertaining to that subject matter unless I bring it up into discussion on my own.”

  


Sherlock held her gaze as he nodded solemnly. Her face still held a trace of sadness, but it warmed up a bit as she asked, “Shall we continue forth and get started on restructuring a place in your mind palace for you to hold your magical knowledge?”

  


Sherlock’s excitement stirred anew, “I’ve been wondering how you plan to achieve that. The closest spell I could find was Legilimency, but that seemed rather limited in its capabilities of merely reading a mind. I’m only theorizing, of course, but my mind palace sounds rather similar to what wizards do in regards to Occlumency, and as such, my mind’s organization may naturally make it difficult to be read by practitioners of Legilimency. It wouldn’t interrupt your Empathic abilities since you said you see things on some sort of energetic level rather than a mentally telepathic one. I’d venture a guess that the spell you plan to perform is one of your own creations?”

  


Althenalextasia’s smile became more genuine, “Indeed, the spell is ‘Conectomentes.’ It’s design is such that it will connect both our minds together, rather than a one-sided reading. It works differently between individuals depending on the state of their minds, but as we both practice method of loci for memory storage and retrieval, we’ll be able to visit each other’s mind places together. Sharing your mind with someone is an immensely private experience, but we’ll only be able to accompany each other’s presence while we do so, so you need not share anything you don’t want to. I thought it would be advantageous to show you my mind place first—or mind castle, rather, as it has been shaped as a facsimile of Hogwarts. Seeing an example of a magical place may help inspire your own ideas as to how you’d like to create your new mental containment for the magical.” 

  


“What inspired you to create such a spell?”

  


She hesitated and mulled over the question but answered, “Sometimes, terrible circumstances can occur—with or without magic—that leave an individual trapped within their own mind. I am deeply compelled to help those who suffer from all forms of trauma, as you will see an example of once the details of the case are revealed tomorrow. Part of my efforts to assist those whom suffer so, required a methodology to reach them in their own minds and to engage with them, to offer them guidance so they could find their way back. But I also needed to reassure them of their safety and gain their trust, a process that takes time and reciprocity of sharing. Mind magic is a delicate art, for minds are vastly complex and unique between individuals.” She pulled out a bottle filled with a golden, copper-coloured liquid.

  


“Excellent—another potion to try! By its colour and subtle sheen, I’d say this is a memory potion.”

  


“Spot on. For mentally connecting with nonmagicals, I’ve found the process easier for them if they take some of this,” she handed the bottle over. “Just a sip though–you shouldn’t need more than that.”

  


He uncorked it and obliged, recognizing the smell of sage, and took a small sip. His body’s reaction was slighter than that of the previous potion. After replacing the stopper of the bottle and handing it back to Althenalextasia, she asked, “Ready?” and he eagerly nodded. She smiled briefly and lifted her wand.

  


A blinding white light obscured his vision and a slight feeling of vertigo left him off-balance. The light slowly started to recede and shapes began to take form before his eyes. His view was finally filled with a field of grass beneath his feet, stretching out into a vast expanse of land. Towards his right several metres out stood a small hut with a thatched roof, smoke billowing out from the top, with a small garden behind it. A great wooded forest lay in the distance from the hut, countless, oppressive trees swallowing the light and pitching it into darkness. To his left out a ways a giant tree could be seen, its many branches swaying and moving of their own accord, seemingly fighting an invisible enemy. Further from that he could just make out a glint of light upon the ground over what appeared to be a large lake. Straight ahead lay a massive castle, multiple tiers spiraling out the top, and the sight took his breath away. Even a man of science such as he could find no argument against the way the building seemed to scream of magic from its very foundation.

  


“How do you feel?” came Althenalextasia’s voice from behind him.

  


“This was your school?” he asked. She nodded. “I find myself deprived for being born into the wrong family. It would almost be worth the trade of my vast intellect to have been able to experience this as a child,” the admission escaped his mouth absentmindedly.

  


She shot him a look he couldn’t interpret, but gestured him forwards, “Would you like to take a look inside? It’s not quite an exact replica, as I’ve changed some things around to accommodate my needs and to include my technological and scientific knowledge, but much of the nature of it is the same.”

  


He complied, and they began to stroll forward. He kept looking around, drinking in all the myriad of details, mind swirling in an attempt to catalogue all the minutiae. As they reached closer to the large, flailing tree, he asked, “What’s that tree hiding? Clearly it’s a gateway...aggressive like a guard dog and a distinct button-like protrusion from the bottom alludes to a killswitch.”

  


She gave a slight start and a laugh, “You really miss nothing. It leads to the Shrieking Shack, a vacant, derelict building located near the Wizarding village, Hogsmead, a few miles from here. In my mind, it’s where I store my darkest and most painful memories.”

  


He gave her a scrutinizing look, “You’re very—forthcoming and open. Most people try to hide their weaknesses, and avoid sharing about themselves in great detail such as you do.”

  


“I endeavor to be as open and honest as I can be. A weakness, as you may see it, is only a weakness if we let it be—by trying to deny its existence and criticizing ourselves for our human nature to have flaws and be imperfect. Rather, it is a strength to our character to accept our imperfections, overcome our perceived flaws, to rise above them, and learn from them. They can help us connect with others and build stronger relationships. To be genuine and authentic allows us to truly love and accept ourselves, and thus others,” she replied with a simple shrug of her shoulders. Sherlock was stunned by that. It so deeply contradicted everything he’d grown to learn throughout his life, everything his brother espoused upon him.

  


She looked over to him and gave a slight shake of her head. “Ah...your brother. Yes, he and I have had many discussions into his misinformed viewpoints on sentimentality and caring,” she rolled her eyes in a display of annoyance. “What if I told you I had it on good authority that the most powerful force in existence is that of ‘love.’ Scoff all you want, but that is the incontrovertible truth.”

  


Finally taking John’s advice to heart, he decided discretion was the better part of valour—particularly against someone with indefensible access to your mind—and thus, refrained from arguing back.

  


#### Extraho Imbitum

  


They stood upon the threshold to the entrance of his mind palace, having finished touring Althenalextasia’s mind castle. Sherlock could have stayed there for hours—not only because it was so rich with magical detail, letting him get a concentrated glimpse into what lay ahead in the magical world, but also because her knowledge was so vast within such a wide array of subjects.

The most fascinating areas had been in the dungeons...a classroom that she explained was similar to her potions class but infinitely larger to accommodate her accumulated knowledge and experimentation into the subject, as well as her ideas for future experiments. Rows of chalkboards were filled with self-writing chalk that continually scrawled ideas out, then wrote the theories of how they could be created, with verging paths of possibilities that branched out depending on outcomes. Walls were lined with countless shelves of filled potion bottles of varying shapes and sizes giving off a prismatic glow that illuminated the otherwise dark space. Each bottle had a roll of parchment paper attached to it that listed the instructions for how to make it, along with notable tips and suggestions and ideas for future improvements. Tables were filled with simmering cauldrons of different material types brewing potions, ingredients adding of their own accord, and a floating parchment paper and fountain pen next to each cauldron would write down the steps and results. She’d explained to him these were her mind’s tests...probable computations and theories on results based upon her knowledge and experience in the subject. She would run these tests in her mind to flesh out the best method before trying in reality. Closets were filled with ingredients, each having its own unique smell that Sherlock tried to capture his own memory of. 

The greatest discovery had been in the room next door—a giant laboratory, containing all manner of equipment. Sherlock had been gobsmacked. He’d never expected a magical person to have knowledge or interest in science, but she’d explained to him she found it exceedingly important towards her continuing work. She’d readily conceded that she was unlikely nearly as knowledgeable as he was in the subject matter, but she’d been able to combine biochemistry with potioneering to create some new inventions that wouldn’t have been able to exist without the combination of techniques. He desperately wanted to stay there and to dive into everything she had, but she bemusedly insisted they needed to move forward, and promised him an opportunity for further review in the future. He agreed on the caveat that she at least provide an example of what she’d created thus far. The answer had been a cure for Lycanthropy. Her research allowed her to find that Lycanthropy held a similar DNA genome to that of Parvoviridae viruses, and she was able to test dependoparvoviruses with gene transduction against HeLa cells to concoct a potion that combined Wolfsbane potion with immunoglobulins and antiretrovirals. The potion was currently offered by the Ministry of Magic for any infected persons, for free—a stipulation she’d insisted upon. She had future plans to study the nonmagical disease HIV to see if there was any possibility a combination could be created with magical ingredients that could cure it, and his brother was actually helping her by laying the legal groundwork in place for them to be able to discreetly distribute such a cure globally without revealing the Wizarding community.

He finally couldn’t wait any longer and had asked her just what it was she did for her job. It was obvious she worked for the Ministry of Magic given her close connection to the Head Auror and to Mycroft, and having called herself a head of a department, but as he had no knowledge yet of what all departments resided in the magical government body, he couldn’t properly deduce what her role was. Head of the Department of Mysteries had been her cryptic answer, but she refused to explain more, citing their impending arrival to the Ministry the next day as the opportune time to explain further.

  


“It’s fascinating how your thoughts manifest in such a visual manner; do they do the same in waking life?” Sia interrupted his reverie.

  


Damn, he didn’t realize his mental review over recent events would show up while they were here, though he should have. “Sometimes. Moreso when I’m observing and deducing, which I suppose is often.”

  


“Please don’t feel embarrassed, your thoughts flew by in such a rapid blur of movement, there’s no way I could have accurately read through them had I wanted to. Not that I wouldn’t want to! Just that I try to respect people’s privacy as much as possible.”

  


He coughed slightly to clear his throat, “Shall we?” He opened the door and pushed it aside to let her through.

  


A long hallway stretched out before them, arches lined against the wall, leading off to different sections of his mind palace. A staircase could just be seen in the distance.

  


“It’s probably an obvious question, but I take it you understood why I asked you to lay the foundations first in your mind palace for your magical knowledge?” Althenalextasia asked him.

  


“So that I could acknowledge, acclimatize, and accept the truth.”

  


“Precisely. Paradigm shifts as monumental as this need a base of internalized acceptance. Had we jumped right in to this part to have me help you set up, whatever we constructed would be much less stable and more likely have been rejected. The mind is a very powerful thing, but also highly protective of itself. Especially a mind as intelligent and complex as yours.

“Now, you don’t need to take me to where you laid your foundations, unless that’s where you’d prefer to continue setting up. We can create a new construct to set your new data and you can always bring whatever’s at your original location to the new place at a later time, or leave it where it is. It’s your mind—whatever works the best for you.”

  


“I’d like to leave those original items where they are,” Sherlock replied.

  


Althenalextasia gave him a smile, “Of course. Now then, let’s set up a scene or room for you to store data. Go ahead and proceed as you normally would to set up a new room, and visualize whatever space you’d like for it to look like.”

  


He walked forward to an archway and stopped before the door. As he slowly pushed it open, he was met by an assault of smells of various flora and fauna. He opened the door more fully and walked into the room. It was an amalgamation of a few of the rooms he’d seen from her own mind castle. The walls were stone, high arched windows lined the opposite side overlooking a forest and lake, a fireplace was burning on one side of the room, the walls were lined with bookcases—many were empty, but some held the books he’d already consumed from his altered time in the trunk. A cabinet lay in the corner, filled with the potion ingredients and their individual smells—he still needed the data as to which each of them were and what they did, various tables were set about the room, some already holding objects atop them, but many of them barren and waiting to be filled.

  


“Oh this is excellent! And so detailed, but of course it is because you notice everything,” she laughed. She strolled over to his bookcase to peruse the titles. “What I mainly wanted to focus on today was to help you acquire the knowledge from the rest of the books you weren’t able to get through from the trunk. We can use the same spell I’ll be using here outside of your mind palace to help you quickly absorb any book you want in the future. But since I know every book from that trunk, I can easily impart my knowledge over to you.”

  


“What is the spell?” Sherlock asked intrigued.

  


“Something I created in school, though I never told my teachers. I felt taking the time to read through something was better spent _doing_ something instead. This spell works on everybody, but how well it works depends on the individual. It wouldn’t help someone with short-term memory loss, for example, because even though they could acquire the information, they wouldn’t be able to hold onto it. And for some people, even though they could have instantaneous knowledge, it may take them a bit longer to fully process and understand it, if they ever do at all.

“The spell is ‘Extraho Imbitum.’ It extracts the information (but doesn’t remove it) from one place, typically books, then allows the recipient to imbibe and absorb it into their mind. In this situation, the knowledge of the remaining books will be coming from my own mind, but I promise you it won’t be askew...if anything you’ll likely find additional notes in the margins based on my addendums,” she gave a small chuckle. “Now, I recommend you take a seat, because it may be a bit disorienting to absorb so much at once—well, maybe not so much for you, but still...better to be cautious.”

  


Sherlock looked to the centre of the room and envisioned his sitting room chair from Baker Street. As it appeared, he promptly took a seat and eagerly awaited Althenalextasia to continue. She gave a nod, took hold of her wand, and pointed it at her head before performing a complicated gesture with her hand, then pointed her wand towards the bookcase in front of her. Books started to materialize on the shelves, stacked neatly in place, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. Words appeared before him and raced past him and through him–a blur of motion both exhilarating and overwhelming at once. He caught sight of individual words that would glow brightly upon his attention, but just as quickly disappear as they surged forward in a sweeping rush. On and on they poured forth–a torrent of information drowning his senses.

  


Several minutes or several hours could have passed, he wasn’t sure, until the last of the words finally trickled by. He finally managed to find his voice again and stated in a hoarse whisper, “That was astounding.” He gracefully lifted himself from his seat and stepped forward to stand next to Althenalextasia, and picked up one of the new books from the shelves. He glanced the title, and immediately recalled verbatim every word printed within, even picturing the notes scrawled in from Althenalextasia—her additions adding an even more thorough understanding of the subject and tying things together that would have taken him time locked away in his mind palace to connect.

  


“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” a coy voice called from the doorway.

  


Sherlock closed his eyes and hung his head in exasperation. Not here. Not now. He heard the clipped sound of stiletto heals snap against the stone floor as the body moved closer to rest their hands atop his shoulders and give a squeeze. “Sherlock, darling, you never did meet me for dinner, and now you’re even more fascinating, being _in-the-know_.”

  


He didn’t have to turn around to know that The Woman was wearing naught but her birthday suit and heels. He heard Althenalextasia shift her stance before saying, “It would seem your mind has made a subconscious connection now that you’ve acquired more data.”

  


He looked up to her face, but she wasn’t looking at him, rather she was meeting The Woman’s gaze, a blank look on her face. He extricated himself from Irene’s grasp and turned to face her, keeping his eyes locked upwards. Her hand reached up to caress his face, “God, those cheek bones.”

  


He analyzed what he saw, and the answer jumped out at him. “You’re part Veela. You didn’t manifest magic yourself, but one of your parents had magic—your mother—and she was half-Veela.”

  


“Oooo, very good, Sherlock. Now that you know, you should come play with me. I may not be a witch, but I have my own forms of magic that can be quite _pleasurable,_ ” she cooed provocatively.

  


“I simply haven’t the time. If you’ll excuse me, we have work to be doing.”

  


She pouted, but smirked and sauntered out of the room, swaying her hips with each step. He stood there awkwardly for a beat before Althenalextasia said, “I think we’ve accomplished all we can for now; shall we head back towards the exit?”

  


He led the way back through the hallway, but the rapid pitter-patter of feet behind him froze him in his steps. 

  


“Who’s this handsome fella?” Althenalextasia cooed in joy.

  


Sherlock turned around to see Redbeard bowling over Althenalextasia. She erupted into peals of laughter, rubbing his head and body as he slobbered her face with kisses. Sherlock just stood there completely flummoxed.

  


“Erm—I’m not really sure what he’s doing here nor how he got here. He’s never gotten loose before from where I keep my memories of him.”

  


“He’s delightful,” Althenalextasia replied, a warm smile lighting up her face.

  


Sherlock walked over to join them and squatted down to pet Redbeard. “Hey boy, how’d you get here?”

  


Redbeard sat on his haunches, tongue lolling out his mouth, and cocked his head to give Sherlock better access to scratch his ear and neck. Althenalextasia pet him from the other side and they sat there for a few minutes in silence, before Sherlock said, “We’ve got to go, but I’ll visit you again soon.”

  


Redbeard gave his hand a long lick, before he sat up and ran off back down the hall, a few barks expressing his joy. Sherlock felt dazed as he slowly rose to continue towards the exit. Althenalextasia followed him quietly. They finally reached the entrance door, and walked through back to consciousness.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Ministry Dueling

  


“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Greg exclaimed.

  


“Come now, Gregory, surely a man of your grit can stomach a bit of spatial turbulence,” came Mycroft’s reply.

  


They arrived at the Ministry of Magic through the Floo System, Sia having connected the fireplace at Baker Street the day before. She had prior obligations she needed to attend to before the brief was set to be held, so Mycroft was guiding them for the day. He’d gone through the fireplace first to demonstrate for them, then waited while they each made their passage through; Greg had been the last. He looked over to see John disheveled, full of soot, and a bit peaky-looking. Sherlock and Mycroft, while a bit dusty, were of course well put together otherwise.

  


“Oi! You lot! This way, this way! We’ll get yer cleaned up in a jiff,” came a voice from ahead. A short, squat man came barreling over towards their group. “Always a pleasure, Mr ‘Olmes. The Minister and Mr Potter are waiting for you on level two, sir,” he waved his wand and the soot vanished from all of them.

  


“Thank you, Dodgers,” said Mycroft, as he began steering the group forward.

  


They walked past rows of fireplaces before making it to an atrium, whose ceiling rose up several stories. Greg’s breath was nearly taken away by the cavernous space, and in the middle sat a giant bronze fountain...a tree stood in the centre, droplets of water gently falling from its leaves; four human figures could be seen sitting on the ground around it, hands intertwined, two wearing pointy hats and two without, while around the humans were all manner of different kinds of creatures Greg had never seen before. Every creature–human or otherwise–sat looking towards the tree in the centre.

  


They made their way around the fountain to a security desk to collect visitor badges–the guard stationed there giving them a strange look, but not questioning Mycroft–then headed to a set of lifts. Once inside, Mycroft said, “I suggest you grab a handle,” and proceeded to grab one from the ceiling himself. 

  


Thank God Greg listened, for the death trap began backing up before it took them on a perilous journey. Why it needed to jerk into several different directions before finally reaching level two, Greg hadn’t the foggiest, but he was starting to think these wizards were deprived of amusement parks growing up, and thus made up for it through the crazy acrobatics of their traveling apparatuses.

  


Finally, the lift came to a glorious stop and a disembodied voice announced, “Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

  


After stepping off the lift, they continued forward to a set of heavy oak doors and walked through; pandemonium reached their ears as soon as they did. Dozens of witches and wizards were gathered around a stretch of the room, cheering and talking animatedly. Greg could make out a few witches and wizards exchanging what looked like golden and bronzed coins between them. Towards the back of the crowd, closest to their group, stood Harry Potter and a tall, regal-looking man of dark skin wearing a resplendent cloak of vivid purple. The two men spotted their group and walked over to join them.

  


The regal man’s deep, rich voice boomed over the cacophony, “Mycroft, welcome,” and they shook hands. “My deepest apologies for the chaos; it seems the department can’t pass up an opportunity for a Dueling match when Sia pays a visit.” His face broke into a blinding smile.

  


“Understandable; I imagine it’s a thrilling display,” Mycroft offered his own slight smile. “Gentlemen, this is the Minister of Magic, the esteemed Mr Kingsley Shacklebolt. I believe you’ve already met Mr Harry Potter; Head of the Auror Department. Minister, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, Doctor John Watson, former Captain of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, and my brother, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

  


The men all exchanged handshakes, even Sherlock, before John asked, “What does a Dueling match entail?”

  


“In this instance, it’s several of the Aurors together trying to hex or jinx Sia, yet she still kicks their arse,” the Minister replied with a booming laugh. “Harry, I think you’d be the only one who could best her, but you never try.”

  


“For the same reason I’m not a gambling man, Kingsley—you can’t lose if you don’t bet. At least this way, people will always wonder,” Harry answered with a laugh of his own.

  


“Is she really that good?” Greg asked, not that he doubted it—he just couldn’t imagine what a Wizarding duel looked like.

  


“Come see for yourself,” the Minister beckoned them forward through the crowd.

  


It was a jaw-dropping spectacle. A vast stretch of the room was laid before them with mounds of boulders interspersed throughout to offer the duelists cover. A forcefield of some sort separated the dueling area from the crowd to keep the spectators safe from wayward spells. Near the centre of the area stood Sia, yet she was practically a blur of movement. Her wand hand shot spell after spell in every direction of her attackers around her, an array of colours sprouting forth with each gesture. Her other hand was lifted up and projected a clear-like shield to protect the half of her body not on the offensive. Yet the most impressive display of her tactics was her continual movement...she dove around boulders, flipped her body to avoid incoming spells, bent in different directions; it reminded Greg of popular action movie heroes, except she obeyed the laws of gravity. Every movement flowed into the next like a dance, and though half a dozen other wizards were shooting at her, not one spell managed to hit her. Every time one of her spells connected against her targets, they were replaced with another Auror waiting to get their turn. Finally, Sia seemed to catch sight of them from the corner of her eye, and with a point of her wand upward, a massive wall of air descended downward around her and knocked all of the remaining opponents to the ground. The crowd clapped and Greg saw money exchanging hands again as the losers of the bets paid up.

  


Sia trotted over to them, but stopped over to Harry first and whispered into his ear. He broke into a grin and nodded, before turning to the group of remaining spectators to converse with them. Sia made her way to their group and welcomed them.

  


“That—that was impressive,” Greg sputtered. The others concurred.

  


Sia smiled shyly, “Erm—thank you all. I’ve been trying to espouse the benefits of incorporating nonmagical defense training into dueling practices for ages, yet most of the Aurors just shrug it off, assured that my skills are purely magical in nature. Before we start the brief, I was wondering if you might assist me in a demonstration, John?”

  


John look bewildered but responded, “Um, I’m not sure what you could possibly need my help for, but you can certainly have it.”

  


She beamed at him. “As a talented man with your skill set and training, I was hoping you could demonstrate your efficiency at dodging spells, without any magical protection. Don’t worry! The only spell that will be shot at you is a tickling jinx—you won’t be hurt at all. But I thought if we had you start from the far end of the room and made it to the spell caster at the other end without being hit, it might finally open everyone’s eyes to the potential nonmagical defense training can offer. Wizards can grow too complacent with magic; they leave themselves vulnerable by placing too high an expectation on it to overcome obstacles, yet it’s particularly rubbish in close combat.”

  


John’s face was pale and drawn tight, but he gave a nod, “Right. Right, just direct me where to go.”

  


Sia smiled and took his arm; the rest of them gave each other mixed looks of bemusement and excitement as they walked back to the dueling stage.

  


John was shown to a burly man with dark golden hair and an arrogant swagger upon his demeanor. They shook hands before John made his way to the opposite side. Harry explained to the crowd the demonstration John graciously agreed to partake in, and after the murmurs from the remaining spectators died down, Harry’s voice boomed out to announce, “On my mark—3...2...” 

  


Greg’s heart pounded in his chest and he saw a steely look take over John’s face, his body crouched low in preparation. “1!” red sparks flew from the tip of Harry’s wand.

  


It was—it was amazing. John dove behind boulders, narrowly missing the flashes of light streaking towards him, yet they never connected with their target and he continued to make his advance forward with measured, careful maneuvers, weaving himself between areas of cover. After exposing himself from behind his last outcrop of rock, Greg was certain his number was finally up. John stood a mere few metres away from the shooter, but Greg didn’t think he could make it to the other shielding of rock nearby. Still, John made a slight movement and the wizard shot towards the area in anticipation of his move—but John feinted! In a jerky movement that left Greg’s joints aching in protest at the sight of, John charged forward instead, executing a barrel roll for added protection before reaching his target. In a lightning-quick flash of movement he sprung up, twisting and knocking limbs to disarm the wizard and pin him to the ground.

  


Absolute silence followed, until Sia and Harry gave a great, whooping holler of cheer. Everyone else slowly followed, the claps and cheers crescendoing into a great bulwark of sound. John rose to his feet, his breath heaving from his chest, and extended his arm to help lift up the wizard he defeated. The wizard accepted his proffered arm, but his face was beet red and twisted into a grimace. Still, John clapped him on the back and offered his hand for a shake. The wizard ignored it, bent over to pick up his wand, and stomped away to lick his wounds, but John just shrugged his shoulders and walked over to join them. He didn’t make it far, though, before the crowd coalesced around him to shake his hand and congratulate him.

  


They made their way towards him instead and upon reaching him, Greg said, “Jesus, John, I didn’t know you had that in you.”

  


John’s breathing had finally leveled out, but with wide eyes he responded, “I didn’t know I did either.” A giggle escaped through his lips.

  


“Of course you do, John; a decorated army doctor with your extensive background doesn’t just lose all that training and ability—no matter how many of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits you eat,” Sherlock interjected.

  


John rolled his eyes at that, but a smile still graced his face as Sia came over to join them, “That was bloody fantastic! I can’t thank you enough for your help, John. It was especially satisfying to witness that against McLaggen...he can be such a pompous prat.” She shook her head before continuing, “It’s a guilty pleasure to see him knocked down a peg now-and-again.”

  


“My pleasure to help put obnoxious gits in their place,” his smile got larger, “I daresay, I’ve got plenty of experience with that.”

  


Greg snorted, and Sherlock looked put-out. Before Sherlock could comment, Harry and the Minister rejoined their group. “Good on ya, mate,” Harry beamed and shook John’s hand. “I only wish Hermione could have seen that...I’ll have to share my memory with her later. It was nice to get in a good laugh before we move onto the heavier subjects.”

  


“Doctor Watson,” the Minister shook John’s hand again, “should you ever want to offer an instructive course to this department on physical defense, we’d be happy to hire you.”

  


Sherlock looked smugly towards John, but John’s face started to blush, “Really, I’m sure there are much more qualified instructors out there; ones whose bodies can withstand that kind of vigorous effort on a regular basis.”

  


The Minister just laughed and clapped him on the back. “Well the offer still stands. Mycroft, let us speak privately while the department starts their debriefing.” He gave a nod to the rest of them and began to stroll towards the exit.

  


“Brother mine, do behave while I am gone. Remember that you are here to assist and to work together as a team with the members of this department—this isn’t your personal playground to flaunt your mental acuity,” Mycroft leveled Sherlock with his most patronizing stare.

  


“As long as they prove to be more competent than The Yard, I shan’t have the need to do so, _brother dear,_ ” Sherlock retorted.

  


“Oi!” Greg exclaimed in affront.

  


“Present company excluded,” Sherlock corrected with an eye roll. Huh—Greg hadn’t quite expected that.

  


Mycroft followed after the Minister, leaving Sia and Harry to direct the remaining group towards a conference room where the meeting could commence.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter—discussion of past trauma.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Debriefing

  


With everyone seated around a wide, wooden table, Harry began, “Aurors; we are facing a new era of maligned magical misuse towards nonmagicals. Over the past several years there’s been an uptick in crimes committed against nonmagicals, but also crimes committed by nonmagicals using magical means. It’s becoming harder to trace these new methods, and while our foes are adapting and getting creative in their crimes, we are staying stagnant in our abilities by continuing to ignore the potential wealth of assistance available to us through partnering with nonmagical law enforcement agencies. We simply do not have the same resources, nor the training for proper interaction with nonmagicals for as deep as our investigations need us to go. It is with this in mind that the Minister, Sia, the Muggle Government Liaison, Mycroft Holmes, and I have worked together with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to begin our engagement and cooperation with select members of nonmagical detective agencies. We believe their help will be instrumental to our success not only in regards to the case we’re here to discuss today, but in future cases involving the nonmagical community as well. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to Detective Inspective Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, Prominent Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John Watson, former Captain of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.”

  


An excited murmur broke out along with several cheers. Those seated closest to the three of them (except McLaggen) shook their hands and joyously welcomed them aboard; one person went so far as to exclaim, “Merlin’s beard–are you **the** _Sherlock Holmes_ and _John Watson?_ I thought those were just fictional stories! My wife’s a Muggle…she reads me your bog thingy whenever it’s updated. You chaps have quite the adventures! I’d have sworn you were a wizard, had I thought you really existed. My wife’s going to be so excited to hear I’ve met the both of you!”

  


Underneath the enthusiastic welcomes and babbles of excitement, John caught an imperious voice muttering in annoyance, “What’ll be next? Are they going to recruit Muggle doctors to assist the healers at St Mungo’s by cutting people open?” John recognized the voice as belonging to the wizard he’d bested in the sparring demo, McLaggen. He felt a little irritated at having his years of schooling and life’s work so marginally trivialized, but chose to ignore it and let it go.

  


Once the chatter quieted back down, Harry continued, “To discuss the case that lay before us, I’m going to pass things over to Sia.”

  


“Thank you, Harry,” Sia began. “Roughly two years ago I came across a young, nonmagical female of twenty-one years of age, living off the streets. As an Empath, I immediately noticed that she was suffering from severe and extensive feelings of fear, pain, shame, sorrow, loss of control, and confusion–all congruent with the effects of deep trauma. The empathic aura of the trauma displayed similarly to what I’ve seen in rape victims…but it was clouded and diffused by a sense of confusion and incertitude. I enquired about her through others around the area and learned that she showed up there several months prior, and only ever accepted money or help from women. The women I connected with that were familiar with her explained that, though they thought this girl may have escaped an abusive relationship or other such situation, the girl insisted she hadn’t. After a bit of time, I was able to build a friendship with the girl, whom I’ll refer to as ‘Janet,’ and she revealed to me that she felt petrified every waking moment of her life towards men, but didn’t know why. She said that she inexplicably woke up one day at a hotel after a night of partying with friends, feeling anxious and afraid for her life, without any reason to do so. Her life rapidly deteriorated after that, as she found she couldn’t continue to go to university–feeling such overwhelming fear around the males in her class, and she couldn’t hold her job for the same reason. Things spiraled further for her as she could no longer afford rent nor food, and she started living on the street as a result. Janet showed mental competence, but her inexplicable fear had her questioning her sanity.

“I took Janet in and offered her a place to live, provided by Mycroft Holmes. I ran both magical and scientific diagnostic tests on Janet, but could find no lingering traces of magic, nor any sign of something medical to cause her emotional troubles. I began to theorize possibilities, but left them as theories until I could find anything more substantial.

“Since that time, I have found twelve more females suffering from similar emotional effects of trauma, yet void of any recollection or explanation as to why, and with Mycroft’s help, we’ve opened a shelter to house these women. That is far too many people for there to be a coincidence of selective amnesia between all of them. I was unable to find anything concrete until the sixth victim; by happenstance, I came across her within a week of her unidentified trauma and was able to find slight traces of Lethe river water left in her system. Lethe water, being a magical ingredient that is slow to filter from the body, confirmed for me that the women were being subjected to a potion that was, at the very least, causing them to forget taking it and any events immediately thereafter. Whether the person or persons who gave them the potion was magical or nonmagical, I could not yet know for certain, but I suspected they were nonmagical since spells were not being performed on the women.

“No immediate discernible pattern could be found between the victims until recently. Victims ten and thirteen were both exotic dancers that had worked at the same gentlemen’s club in London, though neither of them knew each other—the first having quit working there several months before the second began. Once this data was revealed, I began planning and went undercover last month for a few weeks as a dancer at the same club in order to ferret out the guilty party and to hopefully find definitive proof to support my theories.”

  


John was listening utterly enraptured with a sense of horror at what those poor girls must have gone through. It therefore took his brain a few seconds longer to catch up and realize that McLaggen had said under his breath, “Now _there’s_ something I’d like to have seen. Maybe she can do a striptease next time she’s here instead of a dueling display.”

  


Several people looked over to McLaggen with daggers in their eyes. Harry interrupted Sia from continuing and addressed him directly with vehemence in his voice, “That’s your _one_ and _only_ warning, McLaggen. Another crude remark like that and there’ll be immediate consequences.”

  


“Yes, _sir,_ ” Cormac replied disdainfully before adding a much quieter aside, “…just sayin.’”

  


John felt relief that Harry had spoken up so quickly, yet his fists still clenched at his sides in aggravation towards the uncouth buffoon. Sia, however, continued as though the interruption had never occurred, “With help, yet again, from Mycroft Holmes, my undercover operation was successful and I was able to apprehend a suspect who planned to administer a vial of potion to me. I’m currently in the process of reverse engineering the potion with the objective to replicate it, and thus, hopefully find a counter or reversal for the memory effects, for the victims will never be able to fully heal emotionally from their trauma without access to the memories of them to process and integrate the experiences into their psyche. What I have been able to conclude from its contents thus far, indicates its ability to incapacitate into a state of paralysis but mental consciousness, to heal wounds, and to obscure several hours of memories from its time of consumption. As for the suspect, we have him currently detained and were able to successfully interrogate him with Veriteserum the morning after his arrival to the Ministry. The following projection is my memory of the event.”

  


Sia brought her hand up and the lights dimmed. With her wand in her other hand, she lifted it to her temple and as she pulled it away, a silvery, nebulous streak extracted from her head and dangled from the tip of her wand. She flicked her wand and the silvery matter floated forward, expanding outward until it took a rectangular shape against the back wall. Cloudy shapes took concrete form and the man from the night at the club materialized into view; he appeared unconscious and was seated in an imposing, high-backed chair, chains tied across his chest and arms. While the entire view of the room appeared dull in colour, a slight shimmer of colours could be seen hovering just off the surface from the man. It was difficult for John to comprehend what the colours were with the overall desaturation of the scene and with their strange, transparent-like opacity, but they all seemed like dark shades of greys, browns, reds, and blacks—the way they slithered across reminded him of a petrol slick, yet layered almost like a topographical map. In the scene, Harry approached the suspect, transparent swirls of golden colours surrounding him and a steely navy-like blue around his chest, with other colours more indistinct mixed in at different areas around his entire body. John had the sudden epiphany that they were witnessing Sia’s empathetic vision, and that through her memory they could see the same emotional aural energy as she sees. As he continued watching, memory Harry pulled the man’s head back, and poured a few drops of clear liquid from a vial down the man’s open mouth. Harry then lifted his wand and uttered, “ _Rennervate_.”

  


The suspect startled awake, whipping his head back-and-forth to take in his surroundings. “Who—who the fuck are you people? Where am I? What am I doing here?!” It was incredible to see additional colours bloom around him as he came into consciousness—John realized that must be the colour display of the man’s fear, uncertainty, and even anger.

  


“You have been found guilty of being in possession of a highly dangerous and illegal substance with the intent of distributing it,” Sia began and held up the vial of potion from that night. “What is your name?”

  


“My—my name is Aldrin Fleming. Don’t I get a lawyer, or something?” he asked with a glare of his eyes.

  


Harry responded, “When you involve yourself with materials of this nature, you’ll find that we are the judge, jury, and the executioners.” Aldrin just narrowed his eyes at Harry. “Fleming, do you recognize my colleague here?” A deep, burgundy red (but still transparent) seeped through the man’s pelvic region, and John felt sick as he realized the pervert was feeling lustful.

  


John’s thoughts were confirmed as the man replied “Yes” in a lecherous tone, his eyes wandering up-and-down Sia’s body.

  


“What were your intentions with her last evening when you left the club?” Harry proceeded to ask.

  


“To make her squirm.”

  


“Can you be more specific?” Harry asked dispassionately.

  


“I was going to follow her home, attack her and force her to drink the liquid from that bottle, then give her a good beating while I penetrated her and fucked her.”

  


“Why were you going to have her drink the liquid first?”

  


“Because it would somehow make her docile, remove all the physical evidence of what I would do to her, and make her forget what happened to her, allowing me to get away with it.”

  


“Have you successfully given some of this liquid to anyone before?”

  


“Yes.”

  


Harry got up and showed Fleming two photographs. “Do you recognize these two women?”

  


“Yes. I played with them.”

  


“Please describe specifically what you did to them.”

  


John listened in abject horror as that monster described in distinct detail the exact things he did to each of those women. His aural colours were blazing reds around his pelvic region and some strange blue shade that hovered around his head. John felt nauseated as Fleming’s tale came to a close.

  


The Harry from the memory had a look of pure disgust on his face, and his aura colour had a sickly green around his esophagus and abdomen, along with a crimson red by his chest. He continued on and asked, “Have you ever given anyone else this liquid?”

  


“Yes. My ex-girlfriend to test it on, and a man who owed me money.”

  


“What actions did you take against them once they drank it?”

  


Fleming described smacking his ex-girlfriend a few times to give her a black eye which later disappeared and which she didn’t remember. For the man that had owed him money, he beat him repeatedly and stole what money he had from his wallet.

  


“Where and from whom did you acquire this liquid?” memory Harry asked.

  


“I don’t know the man’s name. I met him outside of a bar. He wore a strange piece of clothing—some cloak that had a hood to cover his head and obscure his face. I met some bird in the bar that night and she agreed to fool around with me in the back alleyway behind the bar. While we were just getting started, she changed her mind and tried to back out. I got angry and started smacking the bitch around. The stranger in the cloak came up to me and told me to let her go, that he had a better opportunity for me to get my wants and needs taken care of without fear of repercussions. I was startled by his appearance and the girl ran away. I asked the man who he was, and he said a friend of a friend—that he knew someone who had helped me before with issues I had. He would not elaborate or reveal who the friend was he referred to. He proceeded to explain what his liquid could do, and offered me a sample to test. He said he would return to that same alley at 2am in one week’s time to sell me some if I liked it.”

  


“What bar did you go to and what date did you meet back with him to purchase?”

  


“Chrissy’s Pub on Albion Way, March 21st of this year.”

  


“Is there anything else you’d like to say at this time?”

  


“Only that I wish I could have gotten the chance to ram into that bird’s tight little...” Before Fleming could finish his sentence, memory Harry sent a flash of light from his wand that appeared to knock the man unconscious.

  


Sia waved her wand and the silvery backdrop of the memory scene swirled and coalesced together, shrinking back in on itself. It floated back towards her wand, where she further directed it back to her temple.

  


“We’ve already sent a team to investigate the bar he mentioned, but found no traces of magic left there. Mycroft Holmes was able to pull archived CCTV footage from around that date, but there appears to be a block of time missing from it—we can see Fleming entering the alley with what appears to be a female companion, but then the footage cuts off until a couple hours later,” Harry explained. “And as for the night they met again to make their transaction, no footage exists of them together. Before we coordinate our investigative plans, are there any questions? Yes, Engelhardt?”

  


A younger man with dark hair and trimmed beard asked, “What are we going to be doing with Fleming? Will he go to a nonmagical prison, or to Azkaban?”

  


Harry gave him an appraising look, “You hit the nail on the head in regards to one of our biggest conundrums. As of yet, Fleming is still unaware of the magical community. He didn’t question the potion’s seeming impossibility too deeply, and he has remained ignorant of our society. We’ve never placed nonmagicals inside of Azkaban before, and if we do put him there, we’ll be exposing Magic ourselves. If we Obliviate his memory after he’s released from his sentencing, it would negate the judicial reasoning for his incarceration.

“On the other hand, we don’t have any admissible evidence to convict him into a nonmagical prison, especially without any victims to accuse him of his crimes. For now, we have him detained in a holding cell until further notice. Mycroft Holmes is working to see if he can provide a building to hold Fleming and any further nonmagicals we may find involved with this case.”

  


An older, bespectacled lady with her hair in a demure updo raised her hand. “Yes, Miles?” Harry asked.

  


“Fleming committed crimes against two of the women Sia found, but that still leaves eleven females possibly subjected to similar situations, not to mention the possibility of others not yet found—whether rape victims or recipients of other crimes against them. Will we be looking for the perpetrators behind each of those victims?” Miles asked.

  


“Our main focus of our investigation will be to locate and apprehend the witch, wizard, or group of magical individuals involved in the creation and distribution of the potion being used in these crimes. Any nonmagical that is discovered to be in connection with these crimes shall also be apprehended, but we must accept our limitations. This is why we are hoping to build a working relationship with nonmagical law enforcements so that we can coordinate better in the future,” came Harry’s somber reply.

  


“Sir,” a man with a dark, bushy mustache but bald head started, “while we have confirmation that two of the victims you found were raped, are we certain that all of them were?”

  


Sia took that question instead and answered, “Unfortunately, I believe it to be true with high probability. The similarities in each of their emotional signatures are far too alike to those of rape victims for me to doubt they were subjected to that. Thankfully, not all of them may have experienced additional physical torture from their attackers beyond the act of violation itself.”

  


McLaggen commented, “Well, if the rumours from back in school were true, you _would_ be an expert in recognizing all of that from experience.”

  


John hadn’t even the time to fully process the implications behind that statement before several things occurred at once. For one, Harry’s hand shot forth to point his wand squarely at McLaggen; as he did so, Sia reached out to grab Harry’s arm and she began to say, ‘Harry, _Don’t_ ;’ yet at the same time that Harry had pulled his wand forward, Sherlock—who had been sitting against the wall next to John, to the side of and slightly behind McLaggen—shot his fist forward in an instantaneous and spontaneous baritsu move, right into McLaggen’s trachea, the force of which simultaneously knocked McLaggen to the ground as well as effectively choked him into a coughing fit.

  


John was still trying to make sense of what just happened, but his instincts took over and his Hippocratic Oath directed his actions to check on McLaggen and clear his airway. Everybody else seemed frozen in place, but John heard Greg say quietly to Sherlock, “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you couldn’t go one whole week without insulting or otherwise assaulting a detective you’re meant to work with.”

  


“Frankly, Lestrade, I’d rather be forced to endure Anderson’s sniveling, idiotic drivel for every remaining day of my life than deal with _this_ asinine, puerile blatherskite for one more hour,” came Sherlock’s haughty reply.

  


Harry came around to realizing he’d been beaten to the punch—err, unintended pun, thought John—and he leveled McLaggen with a savage glare that gave _John_ goosebumps. His voice was cold as ice as he told Cormac, “McLaggen, pack your desk and leave behind your ID and pin; you’re fired effective immediately. O’Connor, please escort him to his desk and out of the building.”

  


Cormac sat up, still coughing but managed to sputter, “I was _assaulted_ , I’m going to file a complaint with the Deputy Head...”

  


Harry interrupted, “You were warned, Cormac, and you’re lucky a punch to the throat is all you got—I would have filleted you to within an inch of your life!” Oddly, Sia flinched at that. “Now get the **fuck** out of my department!”

  


Silence echoed throughout the room as McLaggen extricated himself from the floor and out the door, O’Connor, a burly man of solid muscle, following closely behind, his face set into a look of rage.

  


Harry leaned in closely to Sia and whispered vehemently into her ear, too quietly for John to make out the words. Sia shook her head and whispered something back, but when Harry tried to press again, she leveled him with _the look_ —the one that all women possess and that all men innately recognize as meaning the discussion is over and brooks no further argument.

  


Thankfully Harry caught on and gave a weary sigh instead. He directed his attention back to the group and continued, “Right. We’re going to have to rearrange some things and reconvene later this week to workaround our loss in number, but for now; Trevors and Miles, you two check around apothecaries and ingredient stores throughout the continent; check against the ingredient list Sia’s put together so far from the sample to see if there’s been any purchases of any combination of those ingredients, or any bulk purchases of a single one of those ingredients. Engelhardt: start infiltrating underground, hit-up your contacts and see if there’s any chatter over this. O’Connor will be questioning the goblins to see if any large exchanges between nonmagical and Wizarding money or deposits have been made over a regular basis into Gringotts, or if there’s been any word on that kind of money moving around elsewhere. Sia will begin investigating with our nonmagical detective partners into the Muggle-side of things. The rest of you, spin ideas and any further questions you have and we’ll meet again in three day’s time. Meeting adjourned; everyone’s dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action should begin to pick up pace next chapter as we delve into the case!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Opaleye

  


Meeting disbanded, the three nonmagicals and Sia waited behind with Harry. John felt a sense of unease. McLaggen’s implications behind his remarks towards Sia were exceedingly dark and foul, but John didn’t know if there lay any truth behind them. Sherlock, at least, seemed to dismiss them as fabrications with his words on the matter, and yet…and yet if John hadn’t known him better, he’d venture to say that Sherlock’s action was in defense of Sia. In fact, that seemed the more likely explanation behind his reactionary physical response to McLaggen–with the verbal reasoning given by Sherlock as more of a deflection to either save face for himself or for Sia. As John’s intuition cemented onto that line of reasoning, he simultaneously felt surprised by, yet immensely pleased with his best friend’s unexpected chivalry in defense of Sia, but also horrified at the reality of what she seemingly endured in her past. He hurriedly tried to school his expression before she could see it, not wanting to induce any feelings of awkwardness for her, but then he remembered she could read his emotions anyway. His worries were unnecessary, however, as he noticed her gaze stayed pointedly affixed in Harry’s direction.

  


“Harry, I want to check on the progress with the potion analysis first, but then I thought the group of us,” she gestured towards Sherlock, Greg, John, and herself, “could begin investigating into Fleming’s background over the next few days. If the wizard was telling the truth to him, and he really was a “friend of a friend,” we might be able to trace back a connection through known associates if the DI can run a background check. We’ll also need to go over Fleming’s flat and look for any remaining stock of potions.”

  


Harry nodded his head along in agreement, “It’s as good a place as any to begin. Did Penelope get their mobiles setup for them?”

  


“Of course that wonderful woman did,” Sia said with a smile. “I’ve got them waiting in my office–we can head there next to pick them up while I check on the potion.”

  


“Mobiles? Have you found a way to stabilize magic against electronics?” Sherlock asked intrigued.

  


“Indeed,” Sia replied. “Penelope specializes in the technological field; she was able to find a rather simple solution for mobiles several years ago. In fact, with the books you’ve read, I’d be willing to bet you can deduce the main factor that helped us to do so. I’ll give you a hint–it’s animal based.”

  


While only 0.4 seconds passed before Sherlock supplied his answer, John was aware enough of Sherlock’s incredible mental processing speeds to know that the internal dialogue that must have taken place during that time, while he thought through the possibilities, would have been a blazing whirlwind of recollection, assessment and deliberation, until his final conclusion, “Dragonhide. The outer casing of the mobile’s has been replaced with dragonhide, possibly reinforced with graphorn skin.”

  


“Right on both counts. Alright, Harry, I’ll catch you later. Please thank Ginny for inviting me to dinner tonight, I can’t wait to see little Lily.” She leaned forth and gave him a quick peck on his cheek before turning back to them, “Shall we, gents?”

  


They followed her back out to the hallway and over to the lifts, where Greg groaned, “Bollocks, not these again. My stomach only just settled from the last time.”

  


Sia chuckled and gave him a consolatory look, “I wish I could say you get used to them, but if you’re prone to motion sickness, you’re unlikely to do so. I can give you a bottle of Motion Potion when we get to my office that you can take with you for the next time–it works great for Portkey travel too.” Greg looked relieved at that.

  


Into the lift and down-and-over-and-under-and-down some more and they finally reached Level Nine. The lift opened up to reveal a long, dark corridor. A ghostly blue light could be seen at the end, reflecting off the highly polished surface of the walls and floor. John was surprised to note that not a single sound reverberated from their steps as they followed after Sia down the hall. The quiet environment gave off an eerie ambiance. At the end of their walk, they reached a plain black door; Sia lifted her wand and tapped twice against it. The shiny, metal doorknob melted and transformed into a rustic wooden one that Sia grabbed the handle of, twisted, and opened.

  


She held the door open for them and as they passed through; John was amazed by the sight that met him. A wide, sweeping room stretched out before them, and though John knew they were a great distance underground, large windows against several walls arched from floor-to-ceiling with the most beautiful views he’d ever laid his eyes on. The window directly across looked out over a boundless hillside, lush with green life. The window to the right looked through the heavy underbrush of a jungle, streaks of light dappling through the treetops and vines stretching from branch-to-branch. The left window appeared to overlook a Cliffside with an endless ocean view. So caught up in his appraisal of the views, he didn’t immediately notice the rest of the room. While the hallway leading them down had been cold, dark, smooth, and polished, this room was its antithesis. The stone floor was worn and uneven, the tables and other surfaces and furniture were warm and rustic.

  


A long table stretched out the length of the room, and all manner of paraphernalia sat upon it–John saw several cauldrons of different types of metal, a slew of papers strewn about, a cupboard full of herbs and ingredients, and hovering in the air above each bubbling cauldron was a scroll of parchment paper with a fountain pen merrily writing away on its own. Strange devices filled the other table surfaces and John immediately had a moment of panic before he said to Sherlock, “Don’t touch anything before asking first.”

  


Sherlock drew his hand back from reaching towards one such object with an eye roll and said, “I’m not a child, John.”

  


“And yet you almost got caught with your hand down the cookie jar. I think you’d better listen to John,” Greg said. “Besides the fact you’ve no idea what these objects are capable of, who knows what untold damage you could wrought unto them.”

  


Sia smiled as she made her way over to one of the cauldrons. “Don’t worry, the most dangerous thing in this room is me,” she gave a wink. “I keep the hazardous items at home…which, I’m going to have to stop by quick to pick up your mobiles–looks like I accidentally left them there.” She moved over to the cupboard of ingredients and closed the door; she then placed her hand against it. The whole door glowed for a second before she grabbed the handle and opened; John’s jaw dropped open as he saw an entirely different space behind it.

  


“You live attached to your office?” Greg asked.

  


“Hmm? Oh–not exactly. My home is actually located at the edge of a dragon reserve in New Zealand…but I found a way to ‘displace space’ and was able to link it here. In my house, this space is a closet. As soon I step through the frame, my body will be in New Zealand. But, um, please don’t tell anyone–I’m not entirely certain how the Ministry would react. It’s terribly convenient though,” she rambled on, “and I  _am_  thinking about revealing the technique…besides the benefit of instant travel to work without a queue of commuting, it could also be very useful to create a true panic room that will transport you to a predetermined space anywhere in the world. Anywho, you all are welcome to come in; it shouldn’t take me long.”

  


She stepped through the cupboard and Sherlock immediately followed. Greg and John looked at each other, but ultimately joined them…and it wasn’t any different than walking into a room. No swirling vortex of soot and ash, no jerking rollercoaster of a ride. John decided it was a much more preferable way to travel between locations, even if it wasn’t legal.

  


Out through the closet door, a hallway stretched out before them with several doors lined upon either side. John’s curiosity got the better of him as he asked, “What’s behind all of these doors?”

  


Sia looked sheepish as she responded, “I, ah, _may_ take my work home with me. The doors on the left are my living quarters, the doors on the right are various rooms and spaces I use for research purposes. I have a system of–errr, time management, that I use between those rooms while working.”

  


Sherlock’s expression was of utter longing; John coughed quietly to get his attention, and then gave a slow shake of his head ‘No.’ Sherlock pouted.

  


Sia directed them to the third door on the left and they stepped through. The space was a large, but cozy sitting room, the rustic style from her office carried through to her personal space, although this room had wood flooring and an ornate and spacious fireplace against the wall. The far wall was a visual spectacle...for it was entirely made of glass, and the view looked to be a continuation of the sprawling hillside from her office, though trees of a forest lined the left-side edge of the window.

  


John was marveling at the fact that she lived here, in New Zealand—they were currently in New Zealand, no traveling and no customs to pass through, when a loud roar and disturbing sight pervaded his purview out the window. A massive body blocked the sun as it descended towards the line of trees a mere few dozen metres away. The ground reverberated as the beast landed, and the sun glittered off white, opalescent scales, scattering a rainbow of colours across the room. The vision was both awe-inspiring and terrifying at once.

  


Greg managed to stutter, “Wha-what is that?!”

  


Sia looked over towards the beautiful beast, “Oh that’s just Rosie. She’s got a brood back through the woods a bit that way.”

  


“Are...are we safe in here?” John asked.

  


“Hmm?” Sia asked distractedly as she resumed her search around the room. “Oh, yes, of course. Though that reminds me, I promised her I’d pay a visit to see her new hatchlings this week. She’s such a proud momma,” her face broke into a warm smile.

  


“Right. Proud,” John nodded along dazedly.

  


“Fuck it; _Accio_ briefcase,” Sia said in annoyance. A case zoomed out from under a sofa and flew onto the table next to her. “Here we go.” She popped open the lid and took out the contents.

  


“Greg, John, and Sherlock,” she handed each of them identical mobiles, “I believe Penelope programmed each of them to be copies of your previous mobiles, with the addition of contact info for Harry and myself.”

  


John ran his thumb over the backing of his own new mobile. The hide of the casing was unlike anything he’d ever seen or felt before. Thankfully, it was bluish-grey in colour, rather than the opalescent white of the dragon he’d seen before—he thought that would be a bit conspicuous.

  


“Everything in my reading suggested that dragons are impossible to train or domesticate, and that they are highly territorial, particularly mothers with new offspring. Is my knowledge inadequate to current wisdom?” Sherlock suddenly asked.

  


Sia looked over at him and said cryptically, “You’re not wrong—it’s a Merlin-is-your-ancestor thing.” John didn’t quite understand that. Sherlock looked like he wanted to question further—well, he constantly looked ravenous for more information since they learned about magic—but he surprisingly refrained from asking.

  


A light tapping against the window wall startled John so badly, he nearly dropped his new mobile—but it was just an owl... _just an owl?_ He blinked a few times.

  


“Archimedes!” Sia exclaimed. She waved her hand and a stretch of space opened up against the wall for the owl to fly through.

  


The little owl swooped forward to land on her outstretched arm. Sia ran her finger over its chest a few times, before detaching a roll of paper tied to its leg that John only just noticed. “Thanks, Archie,” she said distractedly as she read the note, “there’s some Minced Mice Bites in the kitchen—just got them yesterday, I know they’re your fave.” Archimedes hooted in reply, nibbled her ear, then flew off out the room, presumably to go find his treat.

  


Whatever the message had been, Sia kept it to herself. They made their way back to Sia’s office, where she resumed her previous perusal over the parchment scrolls above the cauldrons. As she read, her brow furrowed deeper and deeper as she muttered, “No. No, that can’t be right. NO.” She started shaking her head, her breathing uneven, and her hand clutching the parchment balled into a fist at her side, trembling slightly; her other hand shot up to grab her forehead as she ducked her head down.

  


“ _ **FUCK!**_ ” she bellowed, swiping her arm through the air, sending everything upon the table flying across the room without touching it. The reaction and commotion was so loud and unexpected, John and Greg jumped in startlement. Sia paced back-and-forth in place, her hands grasping the side of her head with the crumpled parchment still smashed in her hand. “That sick, depraved, _sadistic_ fucking **ARSEHOLE!** ” she screamed.

  


John tentatively stepped forward to rest his hand on her arm. She stopped her pacing, looked up at him to meet his gaze and John noticed the wetness welled within her eyes. She took a few deep breaths before saying “I’m sorry” and with a wave of her hand, everything that was knocked off the table picked itself up and retook its prior position, broken objects repairing themselves.

  


“What have you found?” Sherlock asked evenly.

  


Sia looked down at the ground to answer, “Three rare ingredients were used in the potion—Devil’s Breath, Witch’s Ganglion, and Mescal Beans. When combined—that combination, it...” she shook her head and her shoulders slumped forward even further, “it’s stealing their memories—not just obscuring them, but actually removing them and transposing them to the original brewer. _I can’t reverse it—I can’t heal those girls unless I get back those memories_.” She said the last part with such anguish, John’s throat clenched and his heart ached for her. He pulled her forward to wrap her in a gentle hug, and felt her body relax minutely.

  


Sherlock said quietly, “Then we’ll have to catch whomever concocted this—and we will,” John looked up at Sherlock and gave him a small smile.

  


“I’ll stop by the Yard tonight to get started on a background check into Fleming,” Greg supplied gently.

  


Sia pulled back from John’s embrace and gave a soft smile. “Thank you, everyone. I need to update Harry; those ingredients are from very specific places around the world—they’d be difficult to find in just any apothecary, if at all. It’s possible the brewer got them from the source.” She pulled out her wand, closed her eyes for a second, and suddenly silver lights erupted from the end, buzzing around in a swarm. Bees—the silvery, translucent shapes were little honey bees. One of the bees landed on John’s chest and he felt a sense of calm and peace flare up within him.

  


“Harry,” Sia spoke to a silvery bee, “don’t leave the office yet, I need to speak with you regarding my findings. I’ll be up to your office in ten minutes.” With that, the little bee zoomed out the room right through the door. The other bees hovered over various spots throughout the room—John saw a few sitting on Sherlock—until they finally dissipated.

  


“I’m sorry to cut our time short, but I need to coordinate with Harry for a bit over this. I’ll walk you all back to the Floo Fireplaces on my way to see him. I’ll give you Fleming’s address—you can head there to start looking around and I’ll be right behind as soon as I can.”

  


They all nodded their assent.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Evidence

  


A slide, tick, pick, and click later and the tumblers released. Sherlock quickly slid through the opened door with John following closely behind him. Lestrade had separated to get started running the background check on Fleming, but before they’d split up, he’d handed Sherlock his badge in case anyone intercepted them whilst investigating Fleming’s apartment before either himself or Althenalextasia could show up—not realizing that Sherlock already had one of his badges...on his persons...in his pocket. Ah, well, now he had two.

  


John quietly closed the door behind them. “Think we’ll find anything here to go on?”

  


Sherlock’s eyes scanned over the living room of the spacious, one bedroom, single story flat before him, taking in the scene and discarding all the irrelevant data. Not much was left to make note of, other than the utter lack of a woman’s touch. Fleming had been single for a while now–long enough to either have gotten rid of any prior additions a female partner would have added to the flat, or more likely, he never sustained a relationship long enough for a woman to move in. Sherlock moved towards the entertainment center across the room–the expensive setup the most accessed part of the space. 183cm 4k TV, surround sound system installed around the room, two different video game systems with an abundance of games for each, several media cases filled with DVDs and CDs. He quickly perused over the titles, then directed his attention back towards the video games. Disturbance of dust indicated these eight were played most frequently–five shooting games, two games that incorporate shooting as a byproduct of the action, and one puzzle game. Odd. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He pulled the case for the puzzle game off the shelf and tossed it to John, whose soldier reflexes caught the unexpected projectile launched his way.

  


“Text Lestrade and Althenalextasia; tell them we’ve acquired evidence of Fleming’s offenses against his victims. It should be enough to process him through court, even without the victims’ memories.”

  


“With a video game?” John asked.

  


Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Open it.”

  


John complied to find an unmarked DVD disc laying inside. “He filmed it,” came his grave response after a beat. He pulled out his new mobile and began to text.

  


The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted—John was learning, slowly but surely. He continued on to the kitchen, rifling through the mail on the table, searching the fridge and the cabinets. Finding nothing noteworthy, he walked back across the flat to head to the bedroom. John gave a slight cough as he passed him and said, “Sherlock. I wanted to tell you…that is, I mean to say…earlier today was very good of you.” Sherlock turned his head to stare at John, unable to follow the direction of thought his friend was currently detouring, but continued striding forward. “With, um…Sia, that is,” John rambled on, “I’m very proud of your behavior in regards to her—the defense of her against McLaggen—regardless of the validity of his words—as well as your self-restraint and respect towards her.”

  


Sherlock stopped at the doorframe to the bedroom. He reflected for a moment over what John said before speaking softly to the floor, “I find it’s rather easy to respect her, John; she’s as much of a genius as my brother or I, yet she doesn’t boast or flaunt her capabilities, she doesn’t try to best anyone, doesn’t mock or belittle anyone for not being on her level…rather she aims to lift those around her to join her—to ascend with her, and to support them to keep climbing. She displays a patience and joy in teaching others, and she seeks not power nor accolades, but answers, knowledge, justice, and help for others. She has a wealth of information available at her fingertips with which she could harm or otherwise manipulate others, yet her moral code is as strong as yours.”

  


Sherlock didn’t bother to look at John, or rather he couldn’t. Instead he made his way through the bedroom, and John quietly followed shortly thereafter.

  


Overall, the room was rather plain. Even the colours were muted neutrals, bland banality dripping from every corner and covering every surface. And yet...

  


There. The faded remains of three different stains on the floor, roughly a half-year old. Three different spills. Sherlock’s mind provided a visual of Fleming walking in from the door to set a drink on the nightstand—but something disrupted him. Rewind. _That_. The edge of the trunk at the end of the bed sticks out farther from the sides. The vision now played out with Fleming stubbing his toe on the extended edge of the trunk. The trunk—Fleming placed it there shortly before the tripping began, his body’s habit hadn’t yet acclimated to the change. Sherlock checked the floor and saw it—the faintest scratches leading from the trunk’s current position to a spot originally against the wall, along with several more faint scuff marks extending outward a foot from its current position.

  


Sherlock grabbed a side of the trunk and began heaving. He managed to pivot an end out, before John jumped over to help lift the other side. Bare floor exposed underneath, he squatted down and began tapping on the boards until he found the right one. He dug his nails in around the edge of the board and lifted. The hole in the floor was dark, but he could make out the faint glow from the potion bottles.

  


“Predictable,” he muttered aloud and shook his head. He reached inside and pulled out the topless box containing the vials. He pocketed one quickly without John’s notice before slipping his hand back through the hole. His fingertips grazed something—flat, glass center, wooden edges—picture frame, and lifted it out. His breathing stuttered. He recognized that face. He closed his eyes and his room of faces came to mind. A blank mannequin stood in place, and the faces began to overlay the mannequin’s, cycling through in a blur, features shifting to match that of the one he recognized. And _there_ —that was her. The scene behind her morphed into that of a courtroom. Eleven jury members sat around her. He pulled back to look elsewhere around the room and saw _Him_. Those dark, soulless eyes, that irritating smirk, the slick-backed black hair, the light grey Westwood suit and cream coloured tie and tie pin. Sherlock stared into the menacing face of Moriarty—Moriarty winked and blew him a kiss.

  


#### Courtroom Drama

  


“You just can’t stay away, can you, Sherlock, dear? Even with my _death_ —how many years ago was it now?—you always find yourself drawn back to me. I tooold you—you need me,” his voice broke into a singsong tone at the end.

  


“What I _need,_ ” Sherlock spat back, “is to understand what the connection is between the jury member and my case.”

  


“Your case? Ooohhh, you mean your _magical_ case,” Moriarty broke into a laugh. “Never thought you’d handle the impossible so well, Sherlock. Although it’s not just the magic that has you enthralled, _is it?_ ”

  


In a flash of a second, Moriarty was upon him, encroaching upon his space, his face inches from his own as he whispered, “It’s that _delightful,_ little witch. I daresay, you’re _bewitched,_ aren’t you?” Moriarty giggled and pulled back a bit. “Can’t say I blame you, she is rather yummy, isn’t she? She’s like the best parts of you and the best parts of your John melded together.”

  


Moriarty started to slowly pace around Sherlock; his voice dipped low as he said, “Obviously, she’s far too good for you. She’s so far up the angels’ asses, they sneeze her out their noses,” another laugh followed, “and you—you belong with _me,_ in the fiery depths of _hell_.” Moriarty stopped in front of Sherlock, his face turned into a mask of cold wrath, his black eyes blazing.

  


“Always so melodramatic,” Sherlock shook his head. “You think you know me, but I’m not who I once was.”

  


Moriarty spat a laugh, “Oh you’ve _changed_ have you?! Ooohhh, that’s a good one, Sherlock. Well, you’ve certainly grown a sense of humour since I saw you last. But I’ll let you in on a little secret...men like us, we never _really_ change—not at our core. That’s what a personality disorder _is_...unmalleable. You have to be willing to tear down **everything** about yourself to rebuild, but even then it would be pointless—your foundation’s still cracked.”

  


“I didn’t know you were an expert in building a house,” Sherlock remarked sarcastically.

  


“Why wouldn’t I be? I built an entire **empire**. One that’s flourished, despite your attempts to dismantle and destroy it.”

  


Ah. Illumination hit Sherlock.

  


#### Repelling

  


“Don’t make me repeat myself, John.”

  


“Alright. Alright, let me get this straight—so you’re saying that the woman in this photograph with Fleming, his ex-girlfriend, was a member of the jury for Moriarty’s trial back when—well...back at that-time-we-do-not-speak-of.”

  


“Yes. And no...Moriarty is dead,” Sherlock answered John’s unspoken question before he could ask it, “although it is possible I missed someone from his web. I eradicated the heads, but there’s always bit players in a game like Moriarty’s, waiting to get their opportunity on the board. They would be the most connected liaison with possible clients for a rogue wizard looking to wreak havoc amongst the nonmagicals.”

  


John shook his head. “It’s been years, yet it seems like we still can never rid ourselves of that snake. We’ll need to tell Greg,” he said as he pulled out his mobile again. “Maybe he can pull her name and address from Fleming’s file.”

  


“Maybe I can pull who’s name and address?” came Lestrade’s gruff voice from the door of the room.

  


“Impeccable timing, Lestrade,” Sherlock began. “We’ve come to find that Fleming was previously in a relationship with a jury member from Moriarty’s trial years ago.”

  


Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Blimey. What are the odds of that?”

  


“I would venture to say not very high. We might just be finding ourselves dealing with one of Moriarty’s previous lackeys or lower member of his web that I overlooked in my pest removal,” Sherlock responded.

  


Lestrade’s face took a grim expression. “Well, I was able to get the background check on Fleming pushed through quicker than I expected, the Yard’s still rather slow at the moment—don’t even comment on that, Sherlock,” Lestrade shot him a look and he shut his mouth. Lestrade rifled through the folder in his hands and pulled out a paper. “Anyway...he doesn’t have any priors or even any ASBOs, but there was a harassment complaint against him several years ago by an ex-girlfriend that was dismissed. This her?”

  


Sherlock took the paper proffered to him and nodded his head as he glanced the photo on the page. He quickly read over the page, noted the address, and handed it back. “She’s still living at the address listed?”

  


Lestrade nodded back. “Already ran a current report on her since she’s the only lead and possible character witness against him. I didn’t realize you two would be so successful finding evidence against him.”

  


John handed over the game case with a frown. Lestrade lifted an eyebrow in confusion, opened the case, and as the answer came together in his mind, his face slowly morphed into one of dawning horror. “We didn’t watch,” John said clearing his throat, “but I trust Sherlock’s observations that it’s what we think it is.”

  


Lestrade just nodded slowly. Sherlock said while jumping up, “Well then, I’d say our next stop is to pay a visit to Ms Morrissey.”

  


“Shouldn’t we wait for Sia?” asked John. “She said she’d meet us here. And I’m not certain it’s a good idea for us to be carrying around those potion bottles.”

  


“They’ll be fine. Send her a text to let her know the address for Ms Morrissey,” Sherlock replied, already heading for the door. He missed the mumbling under John’s breath, but since John didn’t object, he continued outside to hail a cab.

  


The ride took them out the main city and into a quiet little suburban town. The houses began to space further and further apart, until the cab stopped at a quaint little yellow house, complete with a white picket fence. Sherlock hopped out to stand on the sidewalk.

  


Lestrade grumbled as he climbed out, “We couldn’t have just taken my car, eh? Could’ve saved the fare.”

  


“Surely you can write the expense off with the Yard,” Sherlock merely replied, still staring at the house before him. Something seemed—odd, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. He couldn’t quite bring himself to step forward.

  


John took a few steps closer to Sherlock but then stopped. “Maybe we should go, Sherlock. I feel like I’ve forgotten something important back at the flat. Didn’t Mrs Hudson have an appointment this afternoon for her hip? She’ll need me to help her settle in when she returns.” He started to turn back around, “I’ll ring the cab back to pick us up.”

  


“Yea, I need to file a bunch of paperwork. It’s been piling up on my desk this week, I really can’t wait any longer to attend to it or the Super will have my arse,” Lestrade said from where he stood.

  


**Wrong**. Something about what they were saying was wrong, but Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on what. His mind was frozen. He closed his eyes. _Focus! Why_ was it wrong? Make the connections. He went to his short term memory room where he kept recent events before reviewing them to file away or to discard. Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson can’t have an appointment for her hip...why? A scene in the sitting room of 221B filled his view, and he played it in his head, though it played back in slow motion as though stuck in molasses. Finally, the moment came up—Althenalextasia healed Mrs Hudson’s hip with a spell. The realization shattered the rest of his memory’s resistance and he recalled Lestrade couldn’t have paperwork, as the Yard had been dead with inactivity for the past month. All-at-once realization dawned on him—Muggle-Repelling Charm—and with that realization came excitement and worry. What did it mean that there was magic at that house repelling them away?

  


“Stop!” He yelled at John and Lestrade, turning to face them. “Don’t move. John, get off the phone.”

  


John gave him a confused look but froze. “What, Sherlock?”

  


“There’s a Muggle-Repelling Charm around the property. You don’t have to be back at Baker Street because Mrs Hudson’s hip has already been healed by Althenalextasia the other day. Lestrade, you don’t have any paperwork—there’s barely been any crime the past month, that’s why we’re here,” Sherlock excitedly relayed. “John, call Althenalextasia instead, hopefully she can arrive quickly. Until she does, this is a great opportunity for an experiment.”

  


With that, Sherlock focused back ahead towards the house. He steeled his mind and his resolve, and attempted to take a step forward.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
> Graphic violence and potential trigger warning!
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Triggers

  


Greg and John were torn. The unknown potential of the scene that lay before them kept them on edge and alert, yet neither of them could deny the humour that laid out in front of them. Sherlock was sprawled out upon the yard, halfway between them and the house ahead, hands digging into the ground to try and keep himself in place. He was making micro-movements forward at a snail’s pace that seemed to become more difficult to do the further ahead he got. He’d sometimes shake his head, but then his face would scrunch up in concentration and he’d move a little bit closer, all-the-while keeping his eyes closed. John had tried asking him if he was ok or in pain when Sherlock first succumbed to laying on the ground, but Sherlock had merely shushed him and said he needed to think. So there Greg and John stood, staring at a grown man crawling on the ground in broad daylight, trying to remain professional over the situation.

  


It was with great relief, then, when Sia appeared with a slight snapping noise, albeit a bit startling. She took one look at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow, before looking back at John and himself who stood next to her, their arms crossed and their faces perfectly mirrored in an expression that said, _yes, we know our friend is weird, but what can we do?_

  


“Honestly, I’m impressed,” said Sia, “and tempted to wait to see if he could make it. But alas, time and tide wait for no man.” She waved her hand and suddenly Sherlock slumped completely to the ground, all tension released from his limbs.

  


He quickly sprung up to his feet in a move that was far too graceful any man his height had the right to do and turned around to face them, brushing bits of dirt and grass off his suit. “Althenalextasia, so glad you could join us; though I’d had hoped you’d be delayed a bit longer—I thought I was making real progress there.”

  


Sia quirked a smile as she replied, “If it’ll make it up to you, I’ll take you somewhere sometime to let you try again; I imagine it’d be a hoot to see you break into The Leaky Cauldron.”

  


“Deal,” Sherlock quickly responded.

  


“I take it we’re safe to move forward?” Greg asked.

  


Sia frowned, “I’m not sure yet; there’s no signs of a magical currently here, but there’s definitely lingering traces of magic. Let me run a diagnostic first to make sure our presence doesn’t set off any curses or hexes. Stay here.”

  


She took off toward the house and began walking around the perimeter, raising her wand and making various motions with it. Greg and John walked up to join Sherlock just as she disappeared around the side of the house.

  


“How _did_ you manage to make it so far?” Greg asked Sherlock.

  


“A well organized mind assists one in staying centered and focused on their objectives. ‘Ordo ab chao’...while the charm creates a chaotic panic of thoughts, insistent that one must be elsewhere, an organized mind stays focused on that which is most important and demands a sense of order to find the truth, thus discarding those errant thoughts that would lead one astray,” Sherlock explained easily.

  


Greg just looked at him blankly. Before he could fathom a response, Sia appeared from behind the other side of the house, and they walked forward to meet her as she headed towards them.

  


“We’re in the clear to go in, but I want you all to follow after me and take my lead; we still don’t know what’s inside or what could be waiting for us,” Sia said.

  


Greg and John both opened their mouths seemingly to argue against that, but Sherlock beat them by replying, “Of course. As one who has magic, you’d be the only one of us capable of defending against it.”

  


Greg shut his mouth and felt a sense of shame for his misplaced chivalry. Sherlock was right, of course, Sia was their best and only defense should there be a magical attack waiting for them. Even if there wasn’t, the dueling match at the Ministry more than illustrated her capabilities to protect herself against any kind of attack.

  


Sia nodded and turned to walk to the front door of the house, with the rest of them closely following. She reached the door and tapped the handle with her wand; the lock clicked, and she opened the door and pushed through. They gathered inside the foyer of the house; Sia froze and lifted her hand in a gesture to stop. She lifted her wand in her other hand and a swarm of the same translucent, ghostlike bees from her office erupted from the end. The bees buzzed about before separating into groups; each group flew off into different directions of the house.

  


They stood there waiting in silence, Greg’s nerves alight with anticipation. Finally, bees began to leisurely return, occasionally dipping over furniture or objects in their path. As they made their way closer, several of them detoured to zip around their bodies, but eventually they returned to the tip of Sia’s wand and dispersed. One bee, however, came from a room ahead on the first floor and made a beeline towards Sia. It flew in a frenzy around her head before shooting back along the path it came from.

  


Sia’s face darkened with foreboding, and she strode forward to follow, signaling the rest of them to do so as well. She kept her wand hand aloft as they made their way down the winding hallway and through a door at the end.

  


Greg’s breath caught in his throat. There, suspended upside down in the middle of the room, hung a naked, mutilated body—one leg extended, the other folded at the knee, arms restrained behind its back; Sia’s bee hovering over it in a wide, slow circle, before vanishing as they approached. They slowly made their way over to stand before it, and Greg heard a loud, audible gasp escape from Sia. He looked over to see her face scrunched in pain, her eyes clenched shut, her countenance pale, and her body slightly trembling. Her skin seemed to be shimmering. Before Greg could suggest she step out of the room, she held up her hand and said in a strained voice, “Just give me a minute, please.”

  


Greg looked to John and Sherlock to see what they thought they should do, but they both were already looking back-and-forth between each other and Sia. By their minutely shifting facial expressions, Greg had the distinct impression they were silently communicating with each other.

  


Suddenly, John spoke aloud in a calm, even voice, “Sia, it’s Doctor John Watson, I’m standing a couple feet aside of you, in a house we’re investigating. May I rest my hand on your shoulder?”

  


Sia’s breathing was laboured, but she managed to whisper, “Please don’t.”

  


“That’s ok, I won’t,” John responded, “but if you do want me to at any time, I’m right here and you may ask. Sia, can you describe to me the floor beneath your feet?”

  


Greg felt immediately confused by that. He wasn’t sure what the floor had anything to do with the present moment.

  


“It’s wooden and worn, there’s dirt and dust caked on it, and fragments of broken furniture,” came Sia’s strangled reply.

  


Greg’s eyes widened and he understood.

  


“You’re not there, Sia. You’re with Sherlock, DI Lestrade, and myself in a house outside of London City. We’re investigating a crime. Can you place your hands on the ground beneath you and tell me what you feel?”

  


Sia crouched down and her hands slowly moved to either side of her body to flatten against the floor. “Smooth, manufactured—linoleum. We’re in a kitchen.”

  


“Good, that’s very good,” came John’s soothing reply.

  


“Can you open your eyes and look at me, Althenalextasia? It’s Sherlock, I’m crouching on the ground across from you. Don’t look up yet, look straight across to me.”

  


Sia nodded, then slowly opened her eyes to lock her gaze with Sherlock’s.

  


“Althenalextasia, can you focus on a happy memory? Something that you use to conjure a Patronus?” Sherlock asked her.

  


“I think...yes, I can.”

  


“Will you describe it to me?”

  


Sia was quiet for a moment before saying, “It was the day I managed to finally coax the Longbottoms out of their mental prisons. They’d been hiding in their minds to protect themselves from the pain of torture, but were locked and trapped there for decades. I worked for a long time developing techniques to connect with them and access that part of their brains through their minds. It was a slow process to gain their trusts, to heal the memory of pain and convince them they were safe and no longer in danger. But when it finally all worked, and they returned to awareness of the present reality—they were so joyful. Their son, a friend of mine from school, was so beyond happy to finally have his parents back. The emotional colours they all displayed were so beautiful and dazzling. I felt so much love radiating from my heart to see their happiness because they all deserved it tenfold. It helped me feel like there was a higher purpose behind my experiences that I could use them towards bettering others’ lives.”

  


Sherlock offered her a small smile, “A mighty feat, indeed. Althenalextasia, there’s a deceased woman here who has been a victim of torture. The sight is unpleasant, but our investigation will help lead us to whomever has been behind the heinous crimes of late. It will ultimately help us retrieve stolen memories from other victims, that you may return to them and help them to heal. Are you ready to continue forth?”

  


“Yes,” came Sia’s solid, unwavering reply.

  


Sherlock nodded, and they both rose to look at the body that lay between them all.

  


#### Iacta Alea Est

  


The body faced them from its inverted positioning, pale and limp, save for the bent leg that retained its place. Hundreds of cuts permeated its body, some shallow, some deep, but there wasn’t any blood upon the floor to indicate the victim had bled out there. Greg wasn’t even sure if the cuts caused the death—if magic was involved, there could be any manner of means.

  


Sia—still pale, but her movements sure and steady—held her wand outward towards the body and scanned the length of it. Smoky wisps of words began trailing out the end of her wand to hover in the air above them.

  


“The Levicorpus spell is keeping her suspended. Most of these cuts occurred simultaneously from the same spell, but there’s an area—possibly on her back—that was cut with a different spell, possibly deliberately and precisely done. She was immobilized with a full body bind, and something—something was removed and switched internally. An autopsy will need to be performed to find out what. We should rotate her to the other side. I think we all can agree she wasn’t killed here, and its unlikely we’ll find anything we can trace through nonmagical means. There’s nothing my scans picked up that we can magically trace either,” Sia said.

  


They all nodded their agreement, and with her wand, Sia gently rotated the body in place to reveal the back.

  


Greg felt sick to his stomach, for there across the victim’s back were words carved into her skin. Sia took a deep breath and stepped forward along with Sherlock.

  


“Iacta Alea Est,” Sherlock read the top line.

  


“Non Omnis Moriar,” Sia finished reading the bottom line.

  


“What does it mean?” John asked.

  


“They’re both Latin phrases; ‘Non Omnis Moriar’ originates from a poem written by Horace, a Roman poet who was originally vested in politics and supported Brutus after Caesar’s assassination. It means ‘I shall not all die;’ it’s a phrase to express the belief that a part of the speaker will survive beyond death—‘I shall wholly not die, my work will live,’” Sia explained.

  


“And ‘Iacta Alea Est’ is a butchered translation that means, ‘the die is cast’ or ‘let the die be cast!’ said to have been spoken by Julius Caesar as he led an army across the Rubicon river to spark civil war. In modern times, the phrase denotes passing the point of no return,” Sherlock rumbled, “but the original meaning was roughly equivalent to our English phrase, ‘the game is afoot.’”

  


Greg and John exchanged a look.

  


“It would seem that our killer is taunting us,” Sherlock continued. “Triggers designed to remind us of our pasts with intimate knowledge of them. I believe they also mean to lure us to the next location through this clue.”

  


“But how can they know we’re involved already? The investigation was just opened this week, and even if one of Moriarty’s past associates is working with the rogue wizard, how could they know we now know of magic?” John asked desperately.

  


“Who’s Moriarty?” asked Sia, looking between Sherlock and John.

  


“The short answer—a psychopathic, consulting criminal mastermind who orchestrated a web of crime around the world, but mainly based in London. He was a genius, but absolutely mental. He tried to drive Sherlock to commit suicide in a ‘game’ of sorts, but ultimately killed himself at the end just to spite Sherlock,” John answered, fists clenched tightly at his sides. Sia’s eyebrows nearly rose to the top of her forehead.

  


Sherlock cleared his throat, “Yes—well, I managed to outsmart him and spent the next two years afterwards traveling across the globe to dismantle his criminal web. It was far too large an operation to successfully eliminate all the players; rather, I focused on the heads of it, thinking that without leadership, the rest would crumble into oblivion or keep to minor crimes. I may have miscalculated, as I believe a member of that web might have risen to continue forth with Moriarty’s missions, and may be working with the rogue wizard of your community to help distribute their potion to past contacts. The bottom message carved into this victim seems to support that supposition. As does the fact that she was an ex-girlfriend of Fleming’s, and she happened to be a jury member during a trial against Moriarty when he was alive—a jury that was coerced into a unanimous verdict of ‘not guilty’ though the evidence against him was insurmountable.”

  


Sia’s face was filled with concern, “John brings up a good point—how could they already know you’re involved? There could be a leak at the Ministry. I’d hate to think there is, but I have to consider it until evidence suggests otherwise. I’m sorry, but all of you will have to be placed under protection; it’s not safe for you to be left without magical security if the rogue wizard knows of you.”

  


Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Sia held up her hand and he surprisingly stopped himself. “Please, we can discuss it later, I know how you feel about that, but I need to ask you—what clue can you read from this scene?”

  


“Twofold—firstly, the positioning of this body—it’s referred to as _pittura infamante;_ common depictions today show as the ‘hanged man’ in tarot cards, but during Renaissance Italy in the north and center city-states it was a popular form of ‘forensic art.’ Subjects were often those who committed crimes such as public fraud—which lying on a jury very well may constitute.

“The next mark of significance is the first line that’s been...carved. Besides a taunt to me, as I’ve been known to—errr...express ‘the game is afoot,’ it’s also alluding that the point of no return is about to be crossed; it hasn’t yet been. Caesar uttered those words before crossing the Rubicon, it was only after crossing it—since that was the border into Italy at that time—that he was essentially stepping into known peril against Pompey. We are invited to step across the Rubicon, and quite literally in this sense as well, for Italy is where I began my dismantling of Moriarty’s web several years ago. I believe that is where we will find the scene of the victim’s murder, and possibly another clue,” Sherlock explained in a rush. “The only problem is that scholars don’t know exactly which river the Rubicon is in Italy, only that it was situated somewhere between Ravenna and modern Rimini, but not exactly where.”

  


Sia’s face illuminated with understanding. “We know! That is, the magicals know. In ancient history, that area used to be inhabited by the Celts–their magic left traces that lasted well into this age; the magicals set up a community around the original Rubicon long before Octavian’s actions resulted in its obscurity—which suited our purposes just fine. It’s now a purely magical area, inaccessible to nonmagicals.

“We’ll have to coordinate before we go, though. I’ll need to update Harry—and you all should join me, in fact, since this is clearly becoming personal and I don’t want any of you out of my sight. I’ll need to get a Portkey setup for international travel, and we’ll also need a nonmagical pathologist who can perform an autopsy discreetly on this body...do you know of anyone?” Sia finished.

  


“I know just the person,” Sherlock smiled.

  


“There’s something I don’t quite follow,” John started slowly. Greg was amazed John followed at all, he was feeling a bit inundated with information himself. “Is the wizard behind this somehow connected to you? Sherlock said these messages were triggers specific to us....” John trailed off.

  


Sia looked contemplative and didn’t respond for several seconds. Finally, she said, “I don’t know for certain; there’s only a handful of people who would know the details of my past intimately enough to possibly be involved—the most likely of which, is not confirmed to be alive. I am not wholly convinced yet that a message was specifically spelled out to me, not without further evidence. Similarities do not always constitute unwavering proof. If more concrete evidence arises, I will further share the information behind a possible culprit. For now, let’s deliver this body to your pathologist; then you all can join me for dinner at Harry’s.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
> Potential trigger warning!
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Dinner

  


Transporting the body to Bart’s ended up being a lot easier than John expected. Sherlock texted Molly, Molly agreed, and Sia side-Apparated all of them in a completely disorienting instant. Once John collected his bearings, and his stomach from the floor, he was worried Sia might have to confound poor Molly for seeing them perform magic, but in a bizarre twist, it turned out Molly was a benign—she was a nonmagical from a family of magicals. She was also apparently well aware of Sia and Harry Potter, and exclaimed when she saw and heard what they were all involved in. She even pointedly looked at Sherlock and scolded him, telling him he’d better be on his best behavior. The look of absolute indignation on his face nearly bent John over in laughter, until the memory of why they were there sobered him. Molly had promised to text Sherlock the moment she had information for them.

  


Their next destination was a quick pop over at Greg’s house, and then Baker Street for them to pack some clothes and other items since Sia was refusing to let them return there with their lives possibly threatened by a magical. John had a feeling that the only reason why Sherlock didn’t get into a snit over that was because Sia commented that she’d have them stay at her home, since she felt it would be safest for them to stay together with her.

  


They now stood upon the threshold to a lovely little home in a place called Godric’s Hollow. Sia explained to them the village was a mixed community of magicals and nonmagicals. Sia knocked on the door and after a half minute, the door opened to reveal a beautiful woman with flaming red hair and a newborn babe held in her arms.

  


Sia’s face lit up, “Ginny! It’s so wonderful to see you; I can’t thank you enough for inviting me to dinner and for accommodating the extra company on such short notice. I’m so sorry to bring business into your home. And here’s little Lily! She’s gotten so big already since I saw her last!”

  


Ginny broke into a laugh, “Oh I never expect anything less from you and Harry. But I knew what I was getting myself into when I married the ‘Chosen One,’” she gave a conspiratorial wink. “Here, please—you’re more than welcome to hold her as her godmother.” She gently shifted the baby over into Sia’s arms. “Come on in, all of you! Dinner will be ready in just a few. I’m Ginny, by the way, Harry’s better half.”

  


John figured he should take the lead, since Sherlock wasn’t usually skilled in social etiquette. He held out his hand which she immediately grasped with a firm grip and he said, “Pleasure to meet you Ginny, I’m Doctor John Watson, this is Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. Thank you for having us over on such short notice.” 

  


“You and your husband met in school; you were both in Gryffindor–though you were a year behind him, you’re the younger sister of his best friend and the youngest of your family. You were a professional Quidditch player—Chaser, if I’m not mistaken—but you retired after your second child in order to stay-at-home with your children. You also write articles as a correspondent for newspapers—likely Quidditch related,” Sherlock rattled off.

  


“Merlin’s beard, Harry wasn’t kidding.” Ginny shook her head then laughed, “Ha! I wish I could learn your skills! They’d be mighty handy in keeping my brood in check...especially with James, he’s such a mischievous troublemaker. Mother’s intuition only goes so far—it’d be a blessing to catch him before the act.” 

  


Sherlock looked both pleased that someone appreciated his skill and wished to learn it, yet also slightly horrified at the idea of it being used for such a mundane matter.

  


Ginny led them through to the dining room, where scrumptious smells wafted through from the kitchen. John’s stomach rumbled a bit as he remembered he hadn’t eaten lunch that day, but he did a double take as he noticed the tableware placing itself on the dining table; plates floating over, napkins folding themselves, utensils laying across the napkins, and glasses filling with water. John wondered if he’d ever get used to magic.

  


Suddenly, a great stampede was heard from the hall as two young children tumbled in. “I win, I win!” sang the eldest.

  


“‘Snot fair! You have longer legs! Your steps are bigger!” the younger boy cried out, and John found he could relate to that.

  


“What have I told you both about running through the house? Behave, we have guests. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?” chided Ginny.

  


“Hi. I’m Albus,” the youngest said shyly.

  


“I’m James,” said the eldest proudly. “Is it true you’re Muggles? It’s only that Muggle adults seem to have a hard time understanding magic. They get all weird about it.”

  


“James, that’s a bit rude to say,” scolded Ginny.

  


“Actually, I’d say that’s quite insightful and honest,” said Sherlock.

  


James looked surprised. “Really? So then what makes you lot so special that they’re letting you help dad at work, even though you don’t have any magical kids that go to Hogwart’s?” James asked in a bluntly honest way that only kids can do without deliberately trying to be rude.

  


“Ooohh, we each have our gifts,” Sherlock rumbled, “mine is that of being highly observant.”

  


“What’s that mean?” James asked intrigued.

  


“It means that by the grass stains on your jeans I can tell that you were playing outside this morning...I know it was this morning because there’s also mud stains—it rained last night in this area—the ground was still wet by morning, but the heat and humidity of the day dried it out before the afternoon. Your jeans are relatively new, but the scuff marks on the bottom of the left leg indicate that you’ve been dragging that leg lately—likely a slight injury, scraping of the knee from a fall that wasn’t serious, but there’s still some bruising and the scabbing from the scrape pulls which feels unpleasant. It also breaks open and bleeds a bit, staining the left knee of your jeans minutely. The minor scrapes on the palms of your hands further corroborate that you fell. As for the slight bulge in your pocket and the faint aroma about your person...I’d say you have a—dungbomb, I believe it’s called?—that you’re waiting to set off in your brother’s room this evening,” Sherlock supplied.

  


James face was absolutely gobsmacked, his mouth hung wide open. He barely got out the words “Wooooowwww” before he flinched as Ginny yelled, “James Sirius Potter; did I hear that correctly?! Turn out your pockets, young man! How many times have I told you, no using dungbombs or anything from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes against your brother! I’m going to kill Ron and George for supplying you with these things!”

  


John was glad he wasn’t the only one that broke out in a chuckle...Greg and Sia found the situation laughable too. Sia was still standing with the baby, rocking it gently, but after confiscating James’s elicit material, Ginny insisted they all take a seat. By that time, the front door could be heard opening.

  


“Daddy’s home!” the two children yelled together. They ran to hug him as he walked into the room.

  


“Heya, squirts,” he smiled and bent down to hug them back. “Did you behave for your mum today?”

  


“Mostly,” Ginny responded from the kitchen.

  


Harry laughed and ruffled the top of James’s head. He gave a quick nod and hello to everyone seated before making his way over to Ginny to give her a kiss hello; he then carefully scooped up Lily from Sia’s arms to cradle her.

  


“Go ahead and put her in her chair, then take a seat, Harry; I’ll be right out with dinner,” Ginny said.

  


#### Disagreements

  


Dinner was an absolutely marvelous, spectacular thing. John couldn’t remember eating so well in such a long time. The food was divine. Sherlock even graciously managed to eat a bit without complaint. And though they were a group of magicals and nonmagicals, the conversation was excellent. Harry and Ginny shared some of their adventures of their youth, and John and Greg supplied stories of Sherlock’s adventures and their assistance with them. Sherlock just rolled his eyes at times, insisting that they were missing all the pertinent details in their retellings, yet John caught him smiling and laughing along with everyone else. Sia, it seemed, was perfectly content to enjoy listening to others’ tales rather than supply her own, though she listened to everything with rapt attention, and she was included in some of the stories Harry shared of his youthful misadventures. Everyone, however, had the innate understanding that all the stories were being told age appropriately for the younger audience of their group, which left John wondering just how devastating some of the stories Harry shared truly were...he’d have to ask Sherlock sometime. It was quite hilarious when Harry acknowledged midway through one of his retellings that Sherlock probably already knew how it ended. 

  


Sherlock, who had been listening just as attentively as the others—something John was not so surprised to realize when he considered their conversation about Sia and concluded Sherlock must also feel respect for Harry—smiled and said, “Oh I know it was an imposter Professor Moody using Polyjuice Potion, but don’t yet know whom it truly was nor why.”

  


Harry barked a laugh and shook his head, “To think of all the trouble that could have been avoided had we only been blessed with you as a magical.”

  


Sherlock’s look was one John couldn’t immediately place—but then he realized it was similar to the one he wore when John first responded at how amazed he was by Sherlock’s deductions. It was a look of pleasant surprise—like he was shocked that anyone would accept him and wish for him to join them. John saw Sia looking over at Sherlock and noticed she wore a look of pure compassion, and John realized she probably had a similar understanding of what that felt like for Sherlock.

  


When dinner was finished, Ginny managed to wrangle the children together to go upstairs for their baths and to get ready for bed, leaving the rest of them the privacy and opportunity to discuss business.

  


The jovial, lighthearted atmosphere cooled at once into something dark and heavy as they began to update Harry on the events and revelations of the day. Harry’s expression was serious and contemplative throughout the report, but by the time they finished, it had morphed into something truly perturbed. He stood up from the table and said, “Sia, may I please speak with you alone, in the kitchen?”

  


Sia nodded, stood, and walked over to join him. They closed the door after them, and no sounds could be heard.

  


“What do you suppose that’s about?” Greg asked in a low voice.

  


“Harry’s worried over Althenalextasia. He views her like a younger sister, as she sees him as an older brother. He’s going to try to insist she step away from this case since it appears to be personally targeted in some manner towards her,” Sherlock explained.

  


“I’m surprised we can’t hear anything; I imagine that conversation to get pretty heated...can’t picture Sia taking that lightly.”

  


“Really, John, is it so easy for you to forget we’re in a house of magicals?” Sherlock asked bemusedly.

  


His point seemed to be made when in the next moment, the kitchen door crashed open as Sia stormed through and heatedly said, “Yea, well, you don’t really have a say in the matter, Harry. You know I’ll just do it anyway. Don’t forget that even though I was omnisorted, I’m still heir to Gryffindor and quite capable of being just as obnoxiously stubborn as _you!_ ”

  


Harry stormed right after her, but then turned to face the rest of them, “No, listen. You lot don’t know what it was like, what happened to her.”

  


“You were the one to find her,” said Sherlock quietly.

  


“Ye—yes,” Harry looked momentarily confused as to how Sherlock knew that, before remembering it was _Sherlock_ who said it. “Yes, nearly a half day after she was abandoned—I overheard the teachers mention she was missing and used my father’s old map of the school that showed people’s locations on the school’s grounds. I found her and carried her to the nurse. It was one of the most horrifying things I’ve ever seen—which is saying a lot, and you want to go gallivanting after a wizard who very well may be the one to have done that to you!” he turned and bellowed at Sia. 

  


“Harry, we don’t know that for sure, and even if we do, what would you have me do? Stick my head in the sand like an ostrich and pretend none of this ever happened? You of all people should understand why I’d have to face him if he is involved,” Sia responded levelly.

  


“But what if you’re triggered fully? Do they,” he pointed to their group, “know the whole story? And I don’t mean the details, but do they know the curse behind it?” Harry persisted heatedly.

  


Sia just looked away.

  


“Didn’t think so,” Harry turned towards them, “Look, it’s not my place to reveal what Sia went through, but you should understand that part of what happened involved the use of a hideous curse, one that the bastard created himself. She was left to live with the wounds of her ordeal in a state that would never heal. And I mean literally, never heal. The teachers, the nurse, healers tried everything and nothing worked, only blood-replenishing potions kept her from bleeding out once the stasis charm on her injuries faded. She was unresponsive and maimed. The only reason she stands here today is because she’s an amazingly extraordinary woman who managed to heal herself from within her own mind and bring herself to consciousness. But the curse is still there, and can never be fully removed. If she’s fully triggered back into her trauma, she relives the whole thing all over again, and loses control of her hold on keeping her injuries together, until her memory fully plays out and she can piece herself back together again.”

  


Sia quietly responded, “That hasn’t happened in nearly ten years, Harry. And it wasn’t that extraordinary; I was merely locked in a part of my mind castle...once I recognized that’s where I was, I was able to crawl back out of it, bit-by-bit; just took a little while to do that. Even if I do get triggered, I’ll make it through again—that’s not the worst thing that can happen. It would be worse to have the capability to prevent others from suffering and yet not do so.”

  


“How did you recognize you were trapped in your mind?” Sherlock asked.

  


“I was in the same room my ordeal occurred, but noticed that something else was in the room that only existed in my mind castle version. In my mind, I was still suffering from what happened, but was able to bodily crawl out the building I was in,” Sia explained.

  


“What happened to the wizard?” John asked delicately.

  


“He was never found. He never returned to his school, his father wasn’t known and his mother was dead under mysterious circumstances. He disappeared. For all we know, he could have been killed sometime during the War, since he was Muggle-born. There’s never been any trace nor any sign of him since that day,” Sia said while turning towards Harry as though still trying to convince him.

  


Sherlock carefully said, “It may behoove us to hear about the wizard, to be better prepared for any possibility. You need not disclose anything you do not wish to.”

  


Sia breathed in and let out a heavy breath, but nodded her head in agreement and began:

  


#### Decisions

  


“I met him when Hogwarts held the Triwizard Tournament. He was from the Beauxbatons school, and though he wasn’t old enough to compete in the tournament, he traveled with them to watch. I was twelve, and he was fourteen. Though a few of my fellow students were friendly towards me at that time—Harry being one of them—I was still ostracized by most of my peers. I was never really bullied, but people mostly ignored me or pretended I didn’t exist. He didn’t. He found me a few days after their arrival sitting outside by the lake and immediately joined me and introduced himself. He said he had heard about my sorting at the school and was wondering if it was true. I admitted it was, and expected him to continue on his way with his curiosity sated, but instead he sat with me and revealed how incredible he thought that was—that it was far better to be extraordinary and unique than to conform to the rest of the sheep of the world. The conversation continued on from there and we found we both had quite a lot in common—both Muggle-borns, both advanced and gifted for our ages, and taking higher classes and creating our own spells, both of us being left aside as outcasts by our peers. We ended up talking all night—and every day thereafter for the rest of the year while the visiting students were there. He became my first close friend. We shared so much knowledge between the two of us—the different types of classes and spells taught between our schools, our own inventions and ideas.

“At the end of the year when the students left to return to their school, he and I agreed to continue writing to each other, and we did so weekly for the next year. He even managed to get permission a few times during that year to visit me in Hogsmeade when our school had our weekend excursions there. Things began to change a bit though when I was fourteen. I had started tutoring students the year prior, and by the time classes started the following year, I found myself developing more friendships. People had finally started warming up to me and accepting me, and I started spending time socially with others. I was also still deeply busy with my experimentations and inventions, and started assisting the teachers that year. I still thought often of my friend, but I started slacking a bit in my correspondences, and weekly writing became biweekly, became every few weeks. I felt badly for my lapse, but assured myself and him that it was temporary, and that I’d make it up to him. At sixteen years of age, but with his accelerated learning, that year was set to be his last and I would be able to take my N.E.W.T.s and finish my schooling the year after, so I figured even if we didn’t get to connect as much at that time, that there would be an opportunity to do so in the future.

“He assured me through our writing that he understood, that he was busy studying as well for his finals that year, and that he agreed we would have time to catch up and reconnect better in the future. I finally set time aside to meet with him at Hogsmeade a week before Christmas break.

“We met up and it seemed like no time had passed at all between us, and yet, it was strange. Almost like he was acting. There was an undercurrent between us that felt odd to me, but I didn’t understand why, so I ignored it and focused on catching up and enjoying our time together.

“We went for a stroll around the village, and when we reached the outset by the Shrieking Shack, he casually brought up that we’d never been inside all the times we’d visited. I didn’t see the appeal in doing so—having already seen what it was like inside and using it as a place for bad memories in my mind castle—but I could relate to a feeling of curiosity for curiosity’s sake, so I complied to show him.

“That’s where it happened. We were on the first floor, in a dingy, dilapidated room, and he had been behind me. He commented that it was a shame that I was such a disappointment, that I had so much potential, but that I was just as much a letdown as everyone else. Before I could ask what he meant—well...he attacked me, and for the next six hours proceeded to torture, maim, and sodomise me, before leaving me to my fate. He expected me to either bleed out and die once the stasis charm he placed on my wounds wore off, or if I was found, to forever be a barren vegetable—for lack of a better word—lost forever in my mental torment and unable to physically heal.

“It was a few months later that I regained consciousness; most of my injuries healing themselves as I did so, but the scars of dark magic never fade—I use a glamour charm to hide the sight of them. The Ministry tried to track him down, but they never could find him...even years later, he’s never shown up again, never made an appearance. Crevan Ó Muircheartaigh may very well be dead.”

  


“And he’s just as likely to be alive,” Harry protested.

  


John was having a difficult time processing all the words being spoken between Harry and Sia following her story. His head was pounding and he felt dizzy, as though a heavy weight was suffocating his lungs, refusing to let him take a deep enough breath. His vision finally cleared when he felt a gentle hand rest atop his shoulder; he looked up from where he sat to see a small, sad smile upon Sia’s face.

  


She turned her attention back to Harry to say, “We’re just going to keep going around in circles, Harry; regardless of what you say, we’ll be going to investigate around the Rubicon Village tomorrow. I’ll make an illegal Portkey if I have to.”

  


Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and took several long, aggrieved breaths before finally saying, “Fine. But I’m going with you. I’m going to personally assist as much as I can throughout the rest of this investigation, and that’s nonnegotiable.”

  


Sia looked like she wanted to argue, but thought better of it and acquiesced, “Very well.”

  


“As it just so happens, Miles and Trevors reported back some of their initial findings in their search today. There’s been several international apothecaries who’ve had various ingredients from our list stolen from them, dating as far back as four years ago. A potion house in the Rubicon Village is one such place to have been burglarized, and the last time was just a few months ago. We’ll start there tomorrow. Until then, go home and rest up; you’ve all had a trying day,” Harry said.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Amor Fati

  


“I figured you’d be awake.” Althenalextasia walked into the sitting room, dressed down for the night and carrying a couple glasses of the butterscotch flavoured drink Sherlock enjoyed whilst in the magically expanded trunk earlier that week. She handed one to him, then sat in a cushioned chair across from him and in front of the lit fireplace. The scene sparked a memory in Sherlock’s mind, but he refused to acknowledge it.

  


“May I ask you a personal question?” Althenalextasia spoke after curling herself up in her seat.

  


“What would you like to know that you don’t already?” Sherlock responded curiously.

  


“I got the impression that there was more behind the story with Moriarty—you, John, and Greg all had an emotional reaction from what was discussed, but you and John had a particularly strong and intertwined response. It appeared as though there was a much deeper pain regarding what occurred.”

  


Sherlock froze. Personal, indeed. He wasn’t familiar with sharing one’s intimate experiences with another...well, other than with John. But as two British men, they didn’t often dwell on such matters for long, nor did they discuss anything overtly—sentimental in nature. It’d taken the past few years for Sherlock to finally except that sentimentality wasn’t all that disastrous and could, in fact, offer a hidden strength...but mostly in small doses. He still wasn’t comfortable nor familiar with diving into those waters, but as he reviewed the ways in which Althenalextasia had been open with him since meeting her, he felt himself relax a bit and proceeded to discuss similarly as though he were speaking with John, “Moriarty wanted to destroy my heart, and to see me utterly ruined as a result. He threatened the lives of three of the people closest to me after turning public opinion against me—the only way to save them was to jump off a building. And so I did.”

  


Althenalextasia’s face was petrified in shock, but he continued, “I faked my death after Moriarty shot himself in the head in front of me on the very same rooftop I jumped from. He removed the only alternative option I had in which I could have forced him to call off the snipers trained on my friends. It was one such option I was prepared for, however, yet it also required me to leave everyone in the dark regarding my plans, save the two people who helped me to orchestrate the ruse—the pathologist, Molly, and my brother. Everyone else needed to believe I was dead in order to ensure their safety while I could use the freedom of my supposed death to eradicate and dismantle Moriarty’s web.

“I—I greatly miscalculated the effect my death and absence would have on John. It is the greatest regret of my life that my actions facilitated such immense grief and sorrow for him. I was, in many ways, a more ignorant man then than I am today, and I would have chosen a different course of action had I been privy to the understandings I have now,” Sherlock finished, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He felt foolish for succumbing to such a reaction to the unintended admission of his lamenting remorse.

  


Althenalextasia reflected on what he said, giving him time to collect himself before saying, “Sherlock, are you familiar with the phrase, ‘Amor Fati?’ Translated it means, love of fate. It is used to describe an attitude in which one sees everything that happens in one's life, including suffering and loss, as good or, at the very least, necessary, in that they are among the facts of one's life and existence, so they are always necessarily there whether one likes them or not. Moreover, _amor fati_ is characterized by an acceptance of the events or situations that occur in one's life. For to love that which is necessary, demands not only that we love the bad along with the good, but that we view the two as inextricably linked.

“It is a Stoic mindset that you take on for making the best out of anything that happens: Treating each and every moment—no matter how challenging—as something to be embraced, not avoided. To not only be okay with it, but love it and be better for it. So that like oxygen to a fire, obstacles and adversity become fuel for your potential.

“When we accept what happens to us, after understanding that certain things—particularly bad things—are outside our control, we are left with this: loving whatever happens to us and facing it with unfailing cheerfulness and strength. Because if it happened, then it was meant to happen, and we can be glad that it happened when it did. We make the best of it. No matter what, we always have a choice in perception and action. Nothing bad can really happen—there is only fuel. Everything we face can be of some purpose.

“This is a mindset I always strive to achieve. Sometimes, it’s easier to do so than others. But by choosing to embrace whatever occurs, rather than deny it, it allows me to move forward and to find the potential of any situation.

“The power of Amor Fati is that it doesn’t waste time wishing things were different, looking backwards or forwards, or through the history books to find out if what’s happening to you is fair. It only looks at what’s happening with enough strength to say, ‘I have what it takes to make this good for me.’ It spends nothing on bitterness or blame, and puts everything towards gratitude.

“What you and John went through can never be undone. But it propelled the both of you to where you are today. It was a catalyst of change that forced you to grow—it helped you to grow stronger and closer to the people in your life that matter the most to you, but also in minute, invisible ways. Like a chemical reaction, you continue to evolve and adjust. And that is a splendid gift. Do not mourn or begrudge the past, embrace the opportunities it has provided you. And that goes for you too, John,” Althenalextasia turned towards the door where John had been hovering, unnoticed by Sherlock. 

  


Sherlock kept his eyes staring forward as John walked into the room to join them. Unwilling to face the situation just yet, he instead asked Althenalextasia, “Is that why—despite your objections to the contrary—you do, in fact, believe Crevan has returned and is involved with this case, yet you’re not overtly worried or concerned about its potential affect on you?”

  


She gave him a half smile and a look—both for his astuteness, but also for his deflection—and responded, “Oh I foresee much suffering in my future—to hope otherwise would be foolish of me. But I have faith that no matter where tomorrow may lead me, it will be to exactly where I’m meant to be; I need only follow my feet. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a few things to attend to yet this eve; dawn will be upon us before we know it.” She gave them both a warm smile before leaving them to each other’s company.

  


“I didn’t realize you—well, that you still felt such remorse over what happened,” John said from the other chair without looking at Sherlock.

  


“Of course I do, John. I...never expected,” Sherlock struggled to express himself, “to have a best friend in my life; never thought I would even want to. Yet you’re even more than that—you’re the brother I would have preferred to have.” John snorted. “There are many lessons I’ve had to learn in regards to what that entails, and I’ve performed abysmally in most of them. You are a better friend than I deserve, yet I will always selfishly endeavor to keep you at my side.”

  


John held his hands clasped together. He looked up to meet eyes with Sherlock and said, “You’re not going to give me a spiked cup of coffee now, are you?” His face broke into an impish smile.

  


Sherlock burst into laughter, and John’s giggles joined his deeper rumbles. John settled his hand on Sherlock’s knee aside him and said, “Sherlock, Sia’s right—we had to go through what we did to get to where we are...and I wouldn’t trade those experiences for anything. I know I don’t react well to references to that particular time of our lives, for which I’m sorry, but I don’t still begrudge you for what you did. You did the best you believed you could at that moment. I am forever grateful to have the honour to call you my best friend, my partner, my brother-in-arms and comrade, my family.” John leaned in and embraced Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock’s limbs felt like molasses for a moment, before his arms returned the embrace. John clapped him on the back a few times, before finally pulling away and standing up from his seat. “I’m going to try and get some shut eye. Sia gave me some potion—I think she called it a ‘Calming Draught’—in case my nightmares are triggered from today’s revelations in the case, but I think I’ll be ok without it. I’m glad we got the chance to talk, Sherlock. Having ‘heart-to-hearts’ isn’t really our thing, but it’s—nice, every once-in-a-while, to check in with each other.”

  


Sherlock nodded a bit absentmindedly, his mind preoccupied with absorbing the conversations of the evening, as John walked across the room. He stopped at the threshold of the hallway and turned back to look at Sherlock. “You know, Sherlock—it’s ok to have...romantic inclinations. Sia’s an extraordinary young woman; it’d be easy to understand how any man could fancy her.”

  


Sherlock’s heart fluttered in his chest. “Come now, John—you know romance isn’t my area,” Sherlock responded evenly.

  


“Yea, well, Magic wasn’t your area before this week, now was it? Never a time like the present to learn,” he beamed his megawatt smile at Sherlock and made his way back out the hall.

  


#### Merlin’s Ears

  


Sherlock peered into a large quartz geode—he wasn’t one given to flights of fancy, but he could have sworn he saw a shimmering movement through the crystals.

  


Once the rest of the household had quieted down and settled in for the night, Sherlock decided to put his restlessness to good use by exploring Althenalextasia’s home. Unfortunately, her experimentation rooms were all magically locked—not even he could pick them—but the other rooms held an interesting, eclectic mix of items. Currently, he’d found a room that appeared to be a library and study—the walls were lined with hundreds of books that he was itching to dive into, but upon his passage through the room, a glint in the dim lighting caught his eye from the side, and he’d turned to investigate it. He was now inspecting the sizable geode sat atop a weathered desk in the corner of the room.

  


“And just who might you be?” an apparition appeared within the crystal and asked him. Sherlock was nearly startled, but kept his composure. The vision appeared as a young man in his early thirties, of slim build, with untidy black hair, noticeably prominent ears, and brilliant blue eyes. He wore very dated clothing befitting a servant of the Medieval era, yet his face was jovial and full of mischief and warmth.

  


“My name is Sherlock Holmes; I’m the World’s Only Consulting Detective, and a colleague of Althenalextasia. You must be her ancestor, Merlinus Ambrosius.”

  


“Ah, excellent, excellent,” Merlinus replied, clapping and rubbing his hands together, “but please, call me Merlin, or Emrys. Merlinus is so stuffy. Arthur would’ve had a riot to hear me called that. So, young Sherlock, what is it I can do for you today?”

  


Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the ‘young’ comment, but Merlin chuckled, “Do keep in mind, I’m over a millennium in age. You’re practically a newborn in comparison, though I mean no disrespect.”

  


“Are you currently amongst the living?” Sherlock asked intrigued.

  


“Good question, well asked. I can see why my Sia’s taken a liking to you. I am in the in-between—neither alive, nor wholly dead. There is much work to be done yet, but until the time is right for me to do so, I have taken to resting between worlds,” Merlin answered cryptically.

  


Sherlock’s brain froze for a half second—Sia had taken a liking to him? Rather than dwell on that, he forced his thoughts to focus forward. “So this is how Althenalextasia came to learn of her heritage to you; you appeared to her within the crystal cave she found in her travels. Naturally, she took a piece of it with her to keep correspondence with you.”

  


Merlin wore a knowing smile upon his face, but didn’t pursue discussion where Sherlock wasn’t ready to go. Instead, he confirmed, “Yes. Sherlock—a man of as many years as I comes to learn a thing or two about life, and while I’d love to impart my knowledge and wisdom of the important facets of it to you, you can’t pour into a full cup. You must learn for yourself that which really matters—though you’re making great progress. There is something, however, that I must impress upon you...when the time comes, you need to trust Sia, implicitly. It will be the only way to rectify events. Please ensure you do not discard that from your memory,” he leveled Sherlock with a stern look that held the age of the world within it. Sherlock found himself speechless, and could only nod his assent.

  


“Splendid,” Merlin said, a huge grin spilling across his face and lighting up his eyes. “I must leave you now, but know that we’ll talk again someday...I’ve seen it,” he gave Sherlock a wink.

  


His image began to fade from view within the crystal, but suddenly it solidified again as he said, “Oh, I almost forgot! One more thing...keep in mind that all things happen for a reason. Even that which we assume to be terrible, is merely a precursor to joy. Life will always balance itself out, but we cannot expect happiness without paying the price to achieve it.”

  


“Althenalextasia spoke of much the same this evening,” Sherlock responded thoughtfully.

  


“She’s a wise woman; you’d do well to listen to her.” With that, Merlin disappeared within the crystal, leaving Sherlock in a rare state of bewilderment.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Made with Love

  


Dawn crept over the horizon to paint the sky a brilliant cascade of colours. ‘Rosie’ the dragon flew out in the far distance, and Greg sat in comfortable silence with John as they enjoyed the view before them while eating a heaping plate of breakfast. Sherlock was MIA somewhere in the house, but Sia had insisted she make them something to eat first before she went looking for him, saying, “Don’t worry, he can’t get anywhere where he could get himself into trouble.”

  


Greg had been surprised to see Sia cooking everything by hand—without magic—but she passionately explained that making food by hand and putting your heart and soul into it was what gave it the best taste. Magic was too impersonal for cooking, according to her. If the explosion of flavour with each bite he took was any indication of that fact, then he was inclined to believe her. John was already on his second helping.

  


“Found him!” Sia happily announced upon her return as Sherlock followed behind her.

  


“Do I want to know what you were up to?” John asked with raised eyebrows between bites.

  


“Simply reading in her library, John. Do have a little faith that I can behave myself as a guest in someone’s home,” Sherlock loftily replied.

  


John leveled him a look that clearly indicated his certainty that Sherlock had only behaved himself because he was unsuccessful otherwise.

  


“Sherlock, would you like some breakfast?” Sia asked.

  


“I don’t eat on a case—last night excepting.”

  


“Sherlock, I have to insist you try something. And unlike John, it’s not for reasons of health...but of pleasure. I don’t care what you say about body being transport or whatever rubbish reasons you have; when food tastes this good, it’s a sensory experience. You owe it to yourself for the sake of scientific knowledge or discovery or whatever. Just try something,” Greg protested.

  


Sherlock gave him a dubious look, but said, “Fair point, Lestrade. I concede that while I’ve never seen the need to apply the scientific method towards food and eating, in certain instances, it may behoove me to have an experience with which to categorize my body’s gustatory perception to such stimuli.”

  


John tried to hide his smile by wiping his mouth with his napkin. Sia smirked and winked at Lestrade from behind Sherlock and said, “Well then, which sense of taste would you most like to stimulate? I generally like to combine flavours to stimulate multiple senses concurrently, but the options I have available each have a base taste.”

  


Sherlock ended up choosing a lavender blood orange scone. He nibbled an end, swallowed, then took a bigger bite, then another, and another, until he finished faster than Greg had ever seen him eat before. John refrained from reacting, but the slight upturned crook at one side of his mouth was sign enough of his pleasure and bemusement.

  


Once everyone had finished—Sherlock even had a second scone—Sia sent the dishes with her wand to wash themselves in the sink and they each collected their bearings in preparation for the long day ahead. Sherlock checked his phone when it pinged and sent off a text before consenting his readiness for departure.

  


“Molly should be able to perform the autopsy today,” he supplied simply.

  


They followed Sia out through the hallway and down the corridor to enter the closet-portal that would lead them to her work office. She then quickly checked over the potions in her office before they proceeded throughout the Ministry to meet Harry in the Atrium, only catching a few wayward glances this time from ministry workers as they made their way through.

  


Harry stood ahead of them, and Greg could recognize and sympathize with the tired and worn-out look of someone who never really got to leave their work behind when they left. But even with the slight dark circles under his eyes, Harry still managed to convey a sense of alertness and determination. He offered them all a small, but warm smile and ‘Good morning’ before getting straight to business. “I’ve procured us a Portkey for our travel as discussed. Portkey travel is similar in sensation to Floo travel, but the landing is slightly more dizzying. Sia mentioned giving you a Motion Potion, Greg; I’d recommend taking some, and if anyone else would like any, don’t feel embarrassed to admit it. Better to do so than to regret not.”

  


“John, you should take some; you looked quite peaky taking the Floo the other day,” Sherlock stated.

  


“Definitely agreed,” John easily replied.

  


Greg took out the bottle from his pocket and handed it first to John.

  


“Just a sip should be fine,” Sia supplied helpfully. 

  


John eyed it a little warily, but took his sip before handing the bottle back to Greg who took his own. The taste wasn’t bad...a bit bland and milky. He didn’t feel any different though, and hoped it worked.

  


“Good. Now,” Harry began and removed a ragged looking handkerchief from his pocket—Greg hoped it wasn’t used—“you need to either touch the Portkey, or clasp hands with someone who’s touching it. Usually Portkeys are setup to go off at a specific time, but we’re able to use a word instead to set it off. Everyone grab hold.”

  


They each gingerly grabbed a piece of the dingy cloth—Greg felt a bit foolish by the sight of them—Harry took his wand in hand and said, “ _Portus_.”

  


#### Dumpster Diving

  


The landing went much more smoothly than the fireplace travel had, in John’s humble opinion. The Motion Potion seemingly worked like a charm—ok, he really had to stop with these unintended puns. John looked around to spot that Greg appeared to have handled the ride much better as well, and Sherlock—well, Sherlock was always pale and collected, so he couldn’t really tell any difference with him whether the sensation was any worse.

  


Beyond their group, John could make out a bustling town, which they appeared to be in the centre square of. The town seemed untouched by time...paved roads of flat stones branched out around them, rows of stucco buildings lined the streets with balconies and windows on the higher levels full of colourful flowerpots and window boxes, while the ground levels were storefronts with venders selling all manner of items out into the open. In the distance, John could just make out a fountain.

  


“We’re on the north side of the Rubicon,” Harry supplied helpfully. “The town’s limits extend just a bit further south of the little river, though there’s not many inhabitants in that area...mainly woods. The apothecary is up this street just a ways. We’ll be able to cover more ground if we split up. John and Greg, you two can join me to go question the potion shop; Sia, you and Sherlock investigate south of the river, but be safe. If you run into trouble, Apparate the two of you out of there immediately. Alert me if you find anything promising.”

  


John felt strangely uneasy that their group was separating, but he chalked it up to being in an international magical community. He also wasn’t a former Captain of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces for nothing, so he steeled his nerves and gave a nod to Sherlock. “Do what you do best,” he told Sherlock with a quirked smile.

  


Sherlock held his gaze for a beat before supplying his own smirk and said, “Likewise, John.”

  


“And I’m just chopped liver,” Greg said resignedly.

  


“Come on, Greg,” John clapped his shoulder and they turned to follow Harry, “we get to walk around town together while Sherlock traipses through woods.”

  


Greg gave a slight chuckle, “Given his propensity for diving through bins in the dirty alleys of London, I’d say that’s a step up for him.”

  


John barked out a laugh and Harry turned to ask with a raised eyebrow, “Does he really do that?”

  


“On occasion,” John said between laughs, “In fact he did so within the first few days after I met him; he was certain a serial killer cabbie had dumped evidence in a bin and we searched around several blocks until he found it.”

  


Harry’s stare just became even more bewildered at that.

  


“Right, maybe I should explain the whole serial killer cabbie part,” and so he began to relay the tale as they made their way through the town.

  


#### Faciam Ut Mei Memineris

  


Sherlock’s senses were blazing from the sights around him; vendors lined the streets as he and Althenalextasia trekked southward towards the city’s limits—their goods an array of colourful and intricate items that his curiosity burned to inspect. Yet he kept himself focused on the task at hand and hoped that when the case was over, he might be able to persuade the magical authorities to let him explore and study their communities in more depth. He’d even beg his brother for help in convincing them, if need be, though he had an inkling that Althenalextasia would be obliging whether her government sanctioned it or not.

  


As the the streets began to thin and the vendors were replaced with homes with fewer people milling around the streets, Althenalextasia quietly began to tell him, “I think I may have a way for us to track where the victim was killed, if she was indeed murdered in this area. I can’t be certain it will work, however, since the spell traditionally is meant to track an item back to the person it belongs to.”

  


Sherlock looked at her inquiringly, “Oh? In what way do you plan to utilize it?”

  


She extracted a slim vial from her bag and handed it to Sherlock. He inspected its contents and noticed a single hair lay inside. He contemplated for a moment before questioning, “You mean to try to track her DNA. If traces of her blood remain at the scene, you’re hoping the DNA within her hair will be drawn to it.”

  


“Exactly,” she gave him a small smile, “I don’t know if it will work, but I thought it would be worth a try,” she shrugged.

  


“Brilliant idea, Althenalextasia,” Sherlock said sincerely. She ducked her head.

  


They continued walking until they came to a great stone wall. A massive archway stood before them, and Sherlock realized it was an aqueduct, running along the length of the town’s border. Beyond the archway the stone road disbanded to dirt, and nature resumed its rightful place around it. He could just make out a small wooden bridge amongst the thick vegetation of the forest, and a small stream of water that ran below it...the Rubicon.

  


“I’m going to transform this into a drop of blood—it’ll be easier to tell the direction it’s indicating in the vial than the strand of hair will,” Althenalextasia said and Sherlock nodded his consent. 

  


She uncorked the bottle and extracted her wand from the holster on her arm. With a slight gesture, the hair became a drop of bright red blood. She waved her wand again and the bottle transformed into a Petri dish with a lid. She held the dish up evenly in a horizontal position and gave it a tap.

  


They stared at the drop of blood and saw it start to roll towards the front of the dish, in the direction ahead of them. Althenalextasia gave a slight smile and said, “So far so good.”

  


Sherlock smiled back, and they began their walk through the woods. 

  


Having spent most of his life in the city, Sherlock was surprised by the immense silence that coalesced around them. Even in the dead of night in London, there was always the white noise of the bustling city in the background. And while he’d traveled to many foreign places during his hunt of Moriarty’s web—some of them remote and uninhabited—the quiet differed here as the thick grove of trees seemed to mute and insulate any noise from the outside world.

  


They followed along what looked to be a trail for several minutes before the blood drop began to direct them away from the path. Carefully trudging through the thick undergrowth, Sherlock’s head snapped up at the slight sound of scuffling.

  


A slender, all-black fox stared back at him from aside a tree. Its penetrating eyes seemed to see right through him, and he felt further startled momentarily before mentally berating himself for his foolish unease.

  


“Little guy gave me a fright too,” Althenalextasia said in a low voice so as not to startle the fox. “I’m surprised to see a black one—they’re very rare. He’s quite the looker.”

  


The fox cocked its head before dashing back through the vegetation and out of sight.

  


They came across a few more creatures as they progressed further on their journey, before finally breaking through a small clearing. The space wasn’t overly large, but in the middle sat an oversized shed, or rather a one-room shack, as Sherlock noticed windows along the sides. It looked to be in exceptionally good shape and quite modern compared to the magical city—constructed of sleek wooden boards, a door that would befit a home in London, and even windows that appeared to be energy efficient.

  


“I think it would be an easy deduction to state that the blood is likely leading us there,” Sherlock stated.

  


“Agreed. Let me run a quick incantation check to see what spells I can detect before we investigate,” Althenalextasia replied. 

  


She waved her wand and waited while smoky words billowed out from her wand. “Well, we can confirm that the same spells used on our victim were performed in there. There doesn’t appear to be any curse traps setup, though strangely there was a plethora of transfigurations completed within,” her voice stated questioningly. “I should send a message to Harry before we check it out,” she stated softly. No sooner had she finished her sentence before a silvery, translucent Stag came walking up to her from behind.

  


She turned to face it and Harry’s voice started talking, “Sia, we didn’t have any luck at the apothecary. We tried questioning a few neighbors of the shop, but...”

  


Sherlock slipped away towards the shack. He tested the handle and found it unlocked, so he quietly slipped inside whilst Althenalextasia continued to listen to Harry’s message.

  


Inside, the room was nothing like Sherlock expected. While the outside façade of the place made it appear fairly new and clean, built within the past several years even, the inside was completely dilapidated. The wooden floorboards were caked with decades worth of dust and dirt. The few windows—which appeared fine on the outside—were boarded up from within. A chair lay in the corner moth-eaten and missing a leg. A decrepit table stood off to the side, worn and with what appeared to be scratch marks embedded on the top side, but still aloft.

  


Paper peeled from the walls, but all around words were written overtop in a shimmering, fiery blaze. Sherlock quickly observed and processed all of the Latin phrases as everything rapidly tumbled into place:

  


Homines quod volunt credunt  
Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur  
Veritatem dies aperit  
Vipera in verpecula est  
**Vulpes pilum mutat, non mores**  
Nomen est omen  
Respice finem  
Supero omnia  
**Quando omni flunkus, mortarti**  
Melita, domi adsum!  
In cauda venenum  
Dis aliter visum  
Nunc pro tunc  
Quem di diligunt adulescens moritur  
Resurgam  
Cor aut Mors  
Fiat experimentum in corpore vili  
Descensus in cuniculi cavum  
Esto perpetua  
**Finis coronat opus**  
Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit  
Graviora manent  
In inceptum finis est  
Intus et in cute  
Ingenio stat sine morte decus  
**Lupus in fabula**  
Memores acti prudentes futuri  
Mors tua, vita mea  
Mors vincit omni  
Nascentes morimur finisque ab origine pendet  
Natura non contristatur  
**Quod differtur, non aufertur**  
Odi et amo  
Omnes vulnerant, postuma necat or omnes Feriunt, ultima necat  
Media vita inmorte sumus  
**Faciam ut mei memineris**

And on the ceiling read:  
**Ab imo pectore**

  


It took merely seconds for the connections to spiral dizzyingly into place, though the devastating truth hindered his reaction and the consequence of which, therefore, could not be rectified as he was a second too late in turning around to yell, “DON’T COME IN HERE!”

  


Sherlock’s heart seized in his chest as he saw Althenalextasia already standing in the entrance of the room. He could categorically see through her eyes the moment her mind disassociated from the present and descended into the dismal abyss of the past.

  


A mangled cry of pain erupted from her throat, the sound jerking at something deep within Sherlock, yet Althenalextasia stood frozen in place as the horror before him continued to unravel. The glamour charm was gone, dissolved the instant she fully succumbed to the flashback. Hundreds of silvery-white scars of varying sizes lined what skin was visible—Sherlock knew those scars continued elsewhere—some of them jagged like a valley and mountainous around the edges.

  


A bloom of crimson red appeared through her shirt from her chest, slowly blossoming to the right. Another splotch of red bloomed by her abdomen. When an area of her left arm split open, slowly, as though an invisible hand dragged across the incision, Sherlock realized the scars were reopening as she relived the curse of her trauma. One-by-one, all the wounds would be made anew.

  


It was when her screams cut off as she weakly sank to the floor and whimpered, “Please, Crevan, stop. Why? _Why?!_ Stop. _Stop. **Please,**_ ” that Sherlock’s knees buckled from beneath him.

  


Harry burst through the door, wand out, his eyes alert and taking in the scene before him. All colour vanished from his pallour. He muttered a quick spell and blood ceased to flow from the cuts upon Althenalextasia’s body, though scars still split open to reveal the sight of layers of flesh, and in some cases, even muscle.

  


“We have to get her to St. Mungo’s,” Harry told Sherlock in a strained voice. “They can’t stop it, but they can make her more comfortable until it’s over; I have the Portkey, I’ll charm it to take us there. Grab the others and meet back here—I left them to wait a little ways back when I heard her scream so I could check for safety. _Hurry,_ Sherlock.”

  


Sherlock stumbled to his feet, all traces of his normal nimble grace misplaced as he raced around Harry and out the door to find John and Lestrade.

  


“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled as he ran across the clearing back the way they originally came, frantically looking every which way for sight of his friend. A crack from the woods aside him caught his attention, but it was just the black fox from earlier—its curious eyes watching as he continued his search. A few birds flew past and squawked at him in their haste to escape his rabid, frantic chase. 

  


Sherlock stopped short and yelled “JOHN!” again, before forcefully grabbing his hair in his hands to try to quiet his mind—to think. His thoughts were a scattered wreck of chaos and turmoil. Blessedly, John’s voice could be heard ahead of him calling back his name, as could the sound of his and Lestrade’s footsteps running through the woods.

  


Sherlock darted forward to meet them but then abruptly turned around to head back to the shack. “John, hurry, it’s Althenalextasia. It’s _Moriarty_. John, I’ve been so _stupid!_ ”

  


John and Lestrade kept pace behind him, but John stammered, “Wh—Sherlock, what? What do you mean, it’s Moriarty?! What’s happened to Sia?”

  


“There’s no _time,_ John! I’ll explain later. We have to get to the shack,” Sherlock exclaimed between breaths, his heart thundering in his chest.

  


They scrambled through the door and Lestrade said breathlessly as he came to a screeching halt, “Oh God.”

  


Althenalextasia lay writhing on the floor, her back arching up in spasms of pain, dozens of fresh gaping lacerations slashed upon her body. Her entire frame collapsed into unconsciousness for merely a moment, before it was jerked back into alertness and mangled screams erupted from her mouth. A scar on her cheek began to spread open, and her hoarse voice begged useless appeals for it to stop.

  


“GRAB THE PORTKEY!” Harry yelled.

  


They all stepped forward and complied without hesitation. Harry held the Portkey in one hand, his wand in the other. He nodded toward Sherlock, and Sherlock delicately placed his hand in Althenalextasia’s. In a broken voice, Harry began to say, “ _Port—_ ”

  


Whatever had interrupted Harry’s incantation, Sherlock would never know, for in that instant, chaos erupted.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
> Major trigger warnings with graphic descriptions of violence!
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Detour

  


The world was spinning violently out of control. Sherlock couldn’t make sense of the chaos, the cacophony of explosive sound completely dying to an oppressive, heavy silence that pressed upon him like a weighted shock blanket. The dizzying vertigo of his core being roughly jerked into a tumbling free fall—and the sudden end of which—left him disoriented and dazed.

  


He breathed deeply in through his nose, and out through his mouth for several minutes until he felt a semblance of homeostasis return to his body before attempting to open his eyes. The first couple tries were fruitless—his vision too blurry and dizzying—but when he was finally successful, his brain betrayed him by its lack of comprehension and offered no such support to explain his predicament.

  


One step at a time, then. 

  


Systems check: Body—still slightly dizzy, but otherwise unharmed. Slightly cold sensation, but bearable. Mind—disoriented, clouded, rebooting.

  


Environmental scan: Dark, but diffused lighting. Slightly cold. Slippery surface. Ice. Ice floor and ice walls. Appears to be a cave. Glacier cave or ice cave a possibility. Too many possibilities to narrow down location.

  


Memory scan—review last known data:

  


Everything came crashing forth like a broken dam, threatening to drown Sherlock in its wake. Panic clawed at his throat, burned through his nerves, begging for release. By strength of mind and will alone he kept it at bay, yet he couldn’t quiet the thunderous fear in his chest that screamed relentlessly at him.

  


Sherlock had only ever felt so completely helpless once before in his life, when he was a very young boy. His mind teetered on a perilous precipice of falling back into the sensations of that experience, but he forced himself to focus. He frantically looked around as his eyes finally adjusted to the diffused lighting, and saw a slight body laying a few metres away. He crawled towards it, not yet trusting his mental faculties to keep himself upright in his current state of duress.

  


Althenalextasia lay in a heap upon the ground, yet she was silent and still, save for her breathing which occasionally shuddered. The sight of her alive was relieving, yet her body’s butchered state was overwhelmingly atrocious to behold. Sherlock concluded that she must have finished through her flashback to completion for the sheer fact that beyond her mostly peaceful unconsciousness, there wasn’t much space left upon her frame for someone to have tortured her further. Based on their prior conversation, he could further conclude that at least six hours had passed if her torment was over, and after closer inspection of a wound he noted the very beginnings of healing commencing. He didn’t know how long it would take her to re-bind the curse as she brought herself back out of her mind castle, but thankfully Harry’s stasis charm seemed to be holding well in keeping her from bleeding out.

  


_John!_ Now that the immediate crisis of present bodies was accounted for, Sherlock’s panic gave rise again as his attention focused on whom wasn’t present. He tried yelling out John’s name, but was met with only silence. Checking once more to ensure Althenalextasia was as well as she could be, given the circumstances, he slowly rose to his unsteady feet to try to look around more.

  


He daren’t go any further than where he could keep Althenalextasia in sight, yet he carefully walked around and down the tunnel-like ice cave they were currently in. He couldn’t begin to fathom why the environment didn’t feel colder than it was, but rather thanked whatever deity was responsible for small blessings.

  


The good news was that the further into darkness he traveled, he could subject that based on the minute reverberating sound of his footsteps, the space they currently occupied was indeed likely to be a cave, and he was heading towards the backend wall of it. Peering through the darkness and finding nothing of note but the sloping edges of the walls meeting the ground confirmed his supposition, but didn’t calm his mind as he worried over John’s whereabouts. 

  


He backtracked to pass by Althenalextasia the other way—confirming she was well enough as he passed—and headed towards the lighter direction. Hesitant to stray too far away from Althenalextasia, but unable to abate his curiosity and concern for John, he continued moving until he saw a break in the wall of ice. He held his breath as he breached the entrance to the cave and peered out at the landscape before him—

  


—And almost had a panic attack. The moon shone brightly upon a sea of white. A blanket of snow covered every surface visible to the eye. Mountains lined the perimeter of the valley below, and they were currently located a few dozen metres up a side of one such mountain—albeit a glacial one. The valley _would_ be a picturesque view—with its frozen lake, snow topped trees, and dark dots of buildings sporadically interspersed throughout—if it wasn’t for the sheer bewildering feeling of incomprehension that overwhelmed Sherlock’s senses.

  


Dazedly, Sherlock made his way back to Althenalextasia and slumped down to sit next to her. He checked his pocket to pull out his mobile and noticed his hand retracted with another item in tow...a vial. He checked the phone first—to find the battery dead, of course—and then inspected the vial more closely. Its liquid content appeared silvery yet translucent. A label on the side written in Althenalextasia’s hand read: ‘ _Drink me to see_.’

  


Sherlock’s mind quickly sorted through the possibilities before settling on the most probable. The colouring of the liquid was too similar to that of her thread of memory from the Auror briefing for it to be any of the potions his mind had supplied as possible options. It would seem that Althenalextasia had invented a potion at some point that could share a memory with the drinker. That she had managed to discreetly place it in Sherlock’s pocket without his notice was impressive—but also indicated her preparedness for the possibility of her being fully triggered into a flashback, and her desire to keep to her word to share and provide information for Sherlock should she be incapacitated.

  


Sherlock stared at the vial as he slowly turned it in his hands. There was no doubt in his mind that the memory within was that of her attack. What he did doubt was whether he had the constitution to watch it. He may have claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath years ago, but even with his delight of the macabre, he’d never given witness to torture and abuse of a live body—and would never have wanted to. Yet he knew it was imperative to gather all the facts and data he could.

  


With no way out of their current situation—unable to move Althenalextasia to try asking for help from someone in the valley below, unwilling to leave her to venture there alone, and without any working means of communication—and with the thought that they were relatively safe with their lodgings—he figured he might as well occupy the time until Althenalextasia’s return to consciousness productively. He pulled out the stopper of the vial, gave once last check on Althenalextasia—noted the progressing state of healing of her wounds—and downed the bottle in a single gulp.

  


#### Nunquam Obliviscar

  


Vague, amorphous shapes swam before his vision and a gentle murmuring could be heard in the background. Slowly, the shapes took form and the sound dialed into clarity. Sherlock stood upon a stretch of snowy land near a fence, as two people strolled towards him, amiable in their conversation and body language. As they reached his position, he saw a younger Althenalextasia—her face vibrant and full of warmth, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

  


And standing next to her was _Him_. Even years younger with a smooth, unlined face that could pass as innocent in its look, there was no mistaking the features that face would grow into, nor the black pools of his eyes that were distinctively recognizable. A sixteen-year-old Moriarty trailed alongside a fourteen-year-old Althenalextasia, his countenance feigning friendly openness.

  


“So what about your mum, Crevan? How’s she doing? You haven’t mentioned her once today; usually you’d have told me five different stories by now of how she’s been harping on you and getting on your last nerve,” young Althenalextasia chuckled.

  


Sherlock caught something dark flash through Moriarty’s eyes that Althenalextasia missed while she watched where she was stepping. Moriarty, however, merely shrugged and said, “Not really much to tell. She hasn’t been a bother for a while now.”

  


Althenalextasia stopped and looked up at him with a penetrating gaze, as though she could almost see through the blasé dismissal to the truth, but Sherlock knew her empathic abilities hadn’t yet been unlocked. Instead, she chewed on her lip in thoughtful introspection and said, “That’s unexpected—but good to hear. I hope that means the two of you are getting along better.”

  


“Swimmingly,” Moriarty replied with a shark-like grin.

  


They walked over to lean upon the fence and Moriarty offhandedly commented, “What do you suppose it’s like up in there?” He gestured towards the derelict shack up the hill behind the fence.

  


“It’s a bit creepy, actually. I broke in the other year to get a look around—the whole place is in shambles and completely covered in dust. It was built a few decades ago to house a former student who was a werewolf—they’d lock him in there to keep him and others safe during his transformations. Rather heartbreaking when you think about it...how lonely and ostracizing that must have felt for him,” Althenalextasia replied.

  


Moriarty waited a beat before saying, “Would you be willing to show me? I’d love to see it...”

  


Althenalextasia looked back up at him and quirked her head. She gave a slight smile and said, “Sure, Crevan. Follow me, but place a Disillusionment Charm on to make sure we don’t get caught.”

  


Moriarty smiled. They both pulled out their wands and twirled them around their bodies. Sherlock watched as they slowly blended into the background, disappearing from sight. He looked down to the snow and followed their footsteps as they proceeded to move up towards the shack.

  


As they came upon the building, Sherlock heard Althenalextasia quietly say, “Through here.” He followed the footsteps through a broken window into the basement.

  


Once inside, it seemed she and Moriarty disabled their spells as they were both visible again. Moriarty gazed around and let out a low whistle as he did so. “You weren’t kidding—this place is a wreck.”

  


“The upstairs is worse...that’s where I think the former student spent most of their time.”

  


Moriarty grinned, “Lead the way.”

  


Sherlock couldn’t dismiss the sense of foreboding permeating his body as they ascended the stairs. The moment they reached the top, he steeled himself for the inevitable.

  


The room they entered appeared exactly the same as the inside of the shack they found at the Rubicon—excepting the lack of written words on the walls. Sherlock’s heart pounded in his chest as Althenalextasia walked forward, but Moriarty stayed in place behind her.

  


“Bit disturbing, isn’t it?” Althenalextasia said in a quiet voice as she looked around.

  


“Oh, I’m sure it will be,” Moriarty said simply. He flicked his wand towards Althenalextasia and thin ropes materialised to wrap around her where she stood.

  


“Crevan!” she yelled.

  


Moriarty slowly walked around to face her. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear. She kept her voice even, however, as she asked, “Crevan—what are you doing? Let me go. This isn’t funny.”

  


Sherlock saw the transformation in Moriarty’s face as the prior congeniality morphed into the cold, calculated countenance of a predator ready to devour its prey. His soulless eyes bore into Althenalextasia’s, and Sherlock saw her tremble slightly.

  


“Why, my dear—I’m just leaving you with a parting gift—or perhaps curse would be the more accurate term. Tomāto, tomato,” Moriarty said with a shrug.

  


“Wh—what do you mean?” she asked shaken.

  


“Ooooh, I’ve been dabbling in creating a few new spells lately that I’ve been meaning to test,” he said in a lilting voice, “and who better to test them on than a worthless body such as yours?”

  


Althenalextasia’s expression was such a mix of emotions, Sherlock had a difficult time deciphering them all. She said in a quiet voice, “But _why,_ Crevan?”

  


Moriarty stepped forward to stand directly in front of her and leaned into her ear. He said in a deceptively calm, deadly voice, “Because you have been the most disappointing of them all. It’s truly a shame–I thought you had so much potential, but you’re an even greater letdown than everyone else.” His face held a sneer as he leaned back a bit and brought up his wand to rest upon her chest. Without breaking eye contact with Althenalextasia, he slowly began to drag his wandtip across, and as he did so, a scream erupted from her throat in tandem with the blood from the cut Moriarty carved upon her.

  


A satisfied gleam flashed across Moriarty’s eyes as he lifted his wand to place it on her abdomen. She screamed and swayed on her feet, but stayed aloft. As Moriarty placed another cut upon her left arm, however, she slowly sank to her knees, unable to keep herself aloft any longer, and whimpered, “Please, Crevan, stop. Why? _Why?!_ Stop. _Stop. **Please**_.”

  


Moriarty closed his eyes and shivered with pleasure, “Merlin—I do love the sound of your begging. We’ve only just begun, sweetheart. I want to make you sing with your imploring pleas.” He flicked his wand and Althenalextasia’s body floated to lay atop the table. “This is going to be a memorable affair, Sia, so that you’ll never forget me again.”

  


With another gesture of his wand, the fabric of her front split open down the middle. Sherlock nearly looked away, uncomfortable with the exposed sight of such a young woman, but he maintained his focus on Moriarty’s movements as he continued his ministrations. As Moriarty’s wand concentrated on an area of her chest, Sherlock realized he was carving words into her skin. He briefly looked down to read ‘ _Nunquam Obliviscar_ ’ before averting his eyes back to Moriarty. Rage simmered under his skin as Althenalextasia’s screams and pleas crescendoed before abruptly ending as she passed out.

  


Moriarty tutted as he revived her to consciousness with his wand and said, “Now, now, stay with me. You don’t want to miss out on all the fun.” A manic smile broke out as he dragged a cut open upon her cheek.

  


And so it went on. For hours. Moriarty kept Althenalextasia from bleeding out with a stasis charm on her wounds, and he continually revived her back into consciousness whenever the pain overwhelmed her. He switched up his tactics at times and turned towards torturing her with a Cruciatus Curse, but he generally seemed more pleased to see the physical results of his hands-on ministrations against her.

  


Once the front of her was nearly completely covered in gaping slices, he merely magicked her onto her front to expose her back, but this time he placed her so she was bent at the hip across the table with her legs spread open, each leg secured to a leg of the table with the conjured ropes. Her clothes long gone, he gazed longingly at the expanse of untouched skin before him.

  


It was at this point that Sherlock knew the worst was about to come. His whole body shook with anger and dread as Moriarty lightly traced the tip of his wand across the unmarred skin of Althenalextasia’s back, down between her spread legs, before inserting his wand into her most private of places. Althenalextasia whimpered but didn’t have the energy to struggle. With a whisper so quiet Sherlock couldn’t catch the words, Moriarty released a spell within her womb.

  


A blood curdling scream erupted anew from Althenalextasia’s mouth and Sherlock learned in that moment that reliving someone’s memories would not allow you the opportunity to empty your stomach—for though he tried to heave, nothing would expel.

  


Moriarty merely smirked with glee as he withdrew his wand, and wiped the sides of it across her back. He gently set his wand upon the table, and returned his hand to the front of his trousers to unzip himself. The only saving grace regarding his subsequent sodomization of Althenalextasia that followed was that she seemed beyond the point of conscious awareness to take much note of it. Even as he finished his vile act and returned to carving her skin—even carving ‘ _Corpus Vile_ ’ upon her back—she no longer reacted to any of it. Sherlock looked into her eyes and saw no spark of light, nor any sign of sentience—she stared off into the distance completely disconnected from her surroundings.

  


Moriarty eventually took notice of her lack of response and pouted, “No fun, Sia. I was hoping you’d at least make it all the way to the end. Though I have to give you credit—I’m nearly there and you held out well.”

  


He finally finished by cutting one last shape into the small of her back—a heart. He leaned down over Althenalextasia and whispered in her ear, “Thanks for the memories,” before kissing her on her cheek and licking the blood from his lips.

  


As the scene faded from view and became an amorphous blur again, Sherlock opened his eyes back to his present environment, shot forward from his seat to the other side of the cave, and spilled every last content from within his stomach until all he could do was dry heave. Even then, his stomach ached with a pain he couldn’t relieve.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Revival

  


Absorbed in his mind palace, sorting through the sea of data he’d been drowning in over the past several days, Sherlock almost jumped at the slight sensation of a tentative touch upon his arm. His awareness quickly focused back on the present and he saw Althenalextasia whole and scar-free sitting in front of him.

  


“Ah, good. You’re back and still have your wand, I see,” he tried to say nonchalantly.

  


Althenalextasia averted her gaze and sat back on her heels, “Any theories as to how we arrived here and where our friends are?”

  


“Several. Each as unverifiable as the next.”

  


She nodded her head then asked, “Did you have the opportunity to look around?”

  


“Only so far as the entrance to the ice cave we’re in. There’s a valley with several buildings scattered throughout that we might be able to get help from, unless you’d be willing to Apparate us out of here sooner.”

  


“It’d be unwise to do so for now, particularly with how far we’d need to travel—I’m not certain one of us won’t get splinched given my current state.”

  


“Understandable,” Sherlock simply replied.

  


“Look—“  
“Listen—“

They both started and then stopped simultaneously. Sherlock held out a hand and said, “Please. Let me.” Althenalextasia nodded. He continued, “I’m not good at reading nor understanding social cues. Emotions are more confusing to me than a foreign concept is, but thanks to John, I do have an inkling sometimes as to what’s appropriate and what’s not. I don’t want to say something contrived or glib in regards to your experiences. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that I’m sorry for what has happened to you, and I do not wish for you to feel awkward about my perception of you as a result of my learning the details regarding it.”

  


Althenalextasia kept her head down whilst he spoke, but after considering his words, she raised it to offer him a small smile and said, “Thank you, Sherlock.”

  


With that taken care of, Sherlock set about the task of revealing the truth of their shared foe. “Regrettably, there’s no delicate way I know of to inform you the following: The Crevan Ó Muircheartaigh you knew as a young adult, who’s returned to orchestrate this deadly reunion, is one and the same as the criminal mastermind, Jim Moriarty—whom I’d previously believed to be dead.”

  


Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she asked, “Are you certain?”

  


“Quite. Besides recognizing him from your memory, he practically advertised it with a neon sign back at the Rubicon. I think he was tired of my stupidity in not figuring it out sooner,” Sherlock said bitterly with self disgust. Althenalextasia tentatively rested her hand back on his arm. He continued, “His writing on the wall. All of the Latin phrases by themselves only circumstantially could be connected to him, but all-together? They feed into each other to illustrate his mindset and personality perfectly. Several in particular left little doubt in my mind as to his identity. He invoked key words and phrases that were discussed privately between us when I was caught up in his game years ago. The most notable phrase, however, was ‘ _Nomen est omen_ ’...the name is a sign. Conventional meaning is slightly different, but he went literal with the phrase. Ó Muircheartaigh is an old Irish name. But its Anglicanised form is _Moriarty_. I’ve been too _stupid_ to notice it sooner.” He said the last part vehemently and rose to his feet to pace.

  


Althenalextasia quietly watched after him, but then supplied, “Sherlock, don’t berate yourself over this. There’s no way you could have known sooner, even with a mind as blindingly brilliant as yours. How could anyone have realized that Moriarty has been leading as many lives as he has?”

  


“It all adds up so perfectly now,” Sherlock muttered. “When he was eleven, he murdered a boy at a swimming pool...Moriarty faked the poison on the shoes to convince me of a mundane cause of death since he knew I was aware the death was a murder and not accidental, but it must have been accidental or deliberate manipulation of his magic that was the true cause of death of Carl Powers. We could never find any information on Jim Moriarty, which I’d always assumed was because he had better resources towards deleting his files than my brother had in finding them, but instead it was because he went off to a magic school—there’s no records for any magical at all nor any Muggle-born magical in your community after the age of eleven. He came back to involve himself with the nonmagicals after what he did to you to escape persecution from the magical community. And his suicide! I’ve already thought of sixteen different ways he could have faked it via magical means, and I still don’t even know all there is to know about magic yet. It was _child’s play_ for him.” He ground his teeth together to keep from screaming a litany of curses. He’d underestimated Moriarty more than he could possibly have fathomed before, and now he was stranded in an icy tomb with John and Lestrade’s whereabouts completely unknown.

  


Althenalextasia rose gently to her feet, “Sherlock, I can’t promise everything will be alright, but I will do everything in my power to endeavor it so.”

  


Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked up at Althenalextasia. They stood there looking at one another, each wearing an expression of worried determination. He nodded his head slightly.

  


“I’m sending a message to Harry. He may be incapacitated, but at least I can let him know we’re alright, and my Patronus can be discreet in finding him.” Althenalextasia conjured her Patronus and began to dictate her message to a single bee. A few others flew over to rest on Sherlock’s chest. He felt the weight that’d been sitting there, squeezing his heart, lift slightly, and a feeling of comfort began to wash over him instead.

  


The bees dissipated as the messenger flew off to find Harry, but the feeling of calm stayed with him and he set his mind to problem solve. “We should inspect the valley below until you’re feeling more confident to Apparate us back. While I’m accustomed to going several days without eating, I don’t imagine you are, and food may help facilitate the recovery of your strength.”

  


“How very thoughtful of you,” Althenalextasia smiled at him. “Let me place a warming charm on you before we step outside so you don’t catch pneumonia. It’ll keep you warm and dry through extreme weather, as long as you don’t fall into a frozen lake,” she joked.

  


With a gesture of her wand, Sherlock felt warmth permeate his body—he hadn’t realized he’d felt as cold as he must have in comparison to the lovely heat he was now wrapped up in. Althenalextasia performed the same gesture towards herself, and they walked forth to venture outside.

  


#### Frozen

  


It was pitch-black outside. The radiant moon and glittering stars Sherlock had seen the previous night were obscured by a thick cover of clouds that threatened to dump snow upon them at any moment. Sherlock’s prior experience of silence in the woods by the Rubicon was eclipsed by the muted ambiance of this location. It left a hollow feeling that his mind was desperate to fill—to distract from. 

  


As they peered down at the valley below, Althenalextasia said, “I have some Floo powder in my bag; if one of those buildings contains a fireplace, I can connect it to the Floo Network—illegally, mind you, but desperate measures and all that. The buildings look strangely vacant though...no lights and no smoke from the chimneys.”

  


Their trek down the slick, steep side of the glacial mountain could have been perilous, but Althenalextasia utilized a few handy charms to assist their descent and keep them safe. It was still a slow process, and as they finally made it to the bottom, large, fluffy clumps of snow finally began to fall around them in a swirl. Trudging through the snow was an effort made easier only by the fact that they were still warm and dry. They reached a grouping of trees from the edge of a forest and took a break.

  


“Here’s hoping that we’ll have luck in one of those homes; I don’t think we’d make it back to that cave, not in this weather at least,” Althenalextasia said between breaths.

  


“No, assuredly not,” Sherlock agreed. “I must remind myself in the future not to ever complain over London’s snow again.”

  


Althenalextasia chuckled but quickly stopped and snapped her head to the side. She slowly withdrew her wand and held it aloft.

  


Sherlock’s senses sharpened in an instant. He refrained from speaking, instead waiting for Althenalextasia to address her concern. After scanning the horizon as best she could through the thick snow and darkness, she finally said quietly, “Sherlock, I think this is a trap. I saw something that shouldn’t be possible...”

  


Before she could explain further, a bright light shot towards them through the trees. Sherlock ducked behind another tree while Althenalextasia lifted her hand to conjure a shield. Several more bright flashes shot towards them; Althenalextasia spun around to join Sherlock and shield them both, and began shooting her own spells out blindly into the dark.

  


“We need to keep moving. I’ll follow you and keep you covered. Go!” Althenalextasia said while blocking several more spells.

  


Sherlock had no argument to protest with, and he knew trying to do so anyway would only distract her and waste time. He nodded once before turning to start running and dodging through the trees. Blasts of coloured light chased after them as they ran, but Althenalextasia kept them from connecting. A few occasionally managed to ricochet off her shield and collide with a tree in his path, but he veered out of the way and kept moving forward.

  


A burst of orange light flew off course straight past the both of them and instead hit a tree on their right. The tree exploded sending a shockwave of debris flying in every direction. Sherlock heard a very unladylike curse escape Althenalextasia’s mouth as she dived atop him and with a wave of her wand, disintegrated the bits of wood into sawdust. She reached behind them and with a complicated gesture, a wall of ice three metres high rose up from the ground to block their attacker.

  


“Keep moving!” she yelled as she picked herself up. “That won’t hold them long!”

  


Sherlock scrambled to his feet and shot forward. He only made it another ten metres before the ground started shaking beneath his feet. With a mighty crack, the ice wall crumbled to the ground. He kept running until he finally saw a break in the trees ahead. They were reaching the exit of the woods, and he wasn’t sure what lay ahead. Before he could question his next direction of movement, Sherlock felt his foot catch on a tree’s root beneath the snow. It would be just his luck that this unfortunate trip would occur at the top of a hill. As his body tumbled down over the side into the clearing, he heard Althenalextasia yell his name.

  


She was still fighting off their unseen attacker and shooting spells as fast as they were receiving them, but when she broke through the edge of the forest to reach the hill, she jumped to land on her rear and used her wand to direct her slide downward. She quickly shot a spell towards Sherlock, and he felt his tumbling slow down before he came to a gentle stop.

  


He tried to sit up, but felt too dizzy to do so just yet. Althenalextasia ran over to meet him and exclaimed, “Shit. Shit, shit, shit, Sherlock–we’re on top of a frozen lake!”

  


Because of course they were. Sherlock felt beneath the snow under him and touched the slippery smooth surface of the ice. That shouldn’t be too much a problem—it was likely thick enough to support plenty of weight. But as flashes of light flew towards them and began to crack the ice upon impact, he really had to start questioning fate’s twisted sense of humour.

  


Althenalextasia turned around to defend them. She kept her left hand aloft with a shield to cover Sherlock, and with her wand hand, projected dazzling colours of light in rapid succession. Under any other circumstances Sherlock would have been happily content to watch the spectacle, but he knew now was not an ideal situation. He slowly rose to his feet, his balance restored, and quickly checked around them to try and find the safest passage back to land.

  


Althenalextasia was startled when the spells stopped and instantaneously came from a different direction. A few made contact with the ice under them, and in a booming crack, Sherlock felt his feet give way from under him.

  


Cold. Intense cold. Colder than anything Sherlock had ever felt before, but he refrained from gasping. The freezing sensation engulfed him and penetrated every cell of his being. But that cold soon began to feel like burning, and extended towards his lungs when he couldn’t take a breath. Sherlock looked up and saw a vibrant clash of lights colliding above the surface. He struggled to reach it, his extremities already losing sensation. A large, clear dome erupted from above, and the attacker’s spells bounced harmlessly off it. Suddenly, Sherlock felt his body jerk up and out of the water. Before he could even take a breath, an arm wrapped around him and turned, the air squeezed into him from all around, and Sherlock felt his body compress within itself.

  


#### Supernova

  


Air. Blessed, glorious air filled Sherlock’s lungs and he coughed as the sensation burned. Althenalextasia still held his arm and directed him towards the centre of the room they were in. In quick succession, she directed her wand towards the fireplace where a fire erupted to illuminate the space and pour forth heat, she then conjured a plain, armless wooden chair—its back facing the fire. She dragged Sherlock towards the chair but before sitting him upon it, a wave of her wand and his wet cloths disappeared, leaving him in naught but his pants. Another wave and a blast of air dried his hair and skin, and with yet another motion, a fuzzy blanket materialised and wrapped itself around Sherlock’s shoulders. She finally gently pushed him to sit in the chair, and once he did, she looked at him and apologized, before sitting astride of his lap and pressing her body along the front of his.

  


“I can’t use the warming charm yet; it’ll raise your body temperature too quickly,” she whispered quietly.

  


Sherlock just shivered. He couldn’t give two shites right now what she did, so long as the comfortable warmth encasing him didn’t stop. His fingers and toes felt painful, but as he sat there in the heated embrace, they slowly began to thaw.

  


“Wh-what di-did you sssseeee? Hoooww di-di-did you knnnow?” he asked between shivers.

  


Althenalextasia was wrapped around him as though in a hug, with her mouth by his ear. Her breath tickled the exposed part of his neck not covered by the blanket as she explained, “Our little black fox friend from the forest of the Rubicon. At first I thought I imagined the movement out of the corner of my eye, but then I caught a glimpse of him. It was very unlikely to have seen a different black fox...they’re rare enough as it is, but in an environment full of snow? Complete lack of camouflage like that goes against mother nature’s designs. I’m hypothesizing that Moriarty is a fox Animagus.”

  


“O-of cooourssse. ‘Vulp-pes pi-pilum mu-tat, non mooores’ frommm the wa-wall. A foxxx ma-may change itsss ssskin, bu-but ne-neveerrr its cha-characterrr,” Sherlock stammered, “Heee wa-was t-taunt-ting ussss w-with the tru-truth.”

  


“Shhhh, relax now; we’re safe at my house. It was dangerous of me to Apparate so soon, but either you’d have died from that or from hypothermia. I’m so relieved you weren’t splinched.”

  


As was Sherlock.

  


They sat there for what felt like ages. As the shivering slowly dissipated, and the feeling returned to Sherlock’s extremities, he surprisingly felt incredibly soothed and comfortable. The heat of his chest where Althenalextasia lay connected against him was a sensation he couldn’t quite categorize—obviously warm, but there was something else within his body that felt profoundly affected by the contact—not in a bad way, either. It was—good. Very good.

  


Slowly, Althenalextasia leaned backwards, separating the direct connection—to his disappointment. She brought her hands up and felt his face. After giving a nod to herself, she retracted a hand and returned it with her wand; a little wave, and Sherlock felt any last trace of cold vanquished by the cascade of heat permeating throughout his body.

  


She returned her wand to its hidden holster, then slowly brought her hand back up to rest on the side of his face, mirroring the other hand. Sherlock’s eyes were locked in her gaze. As he studied her eyes, it wasn’t the scientific terminology that categorized what he saw, but rather the abstract artistic appreciation for the way the fire glinted off the blue—illuminating the ring of orange around her pupil and revealing the hidden depth of green. As Althenalextasia traced his cheekbone lightly with her thumb, he felt a different kind of heat begin to build within him.

  


She broke their gaze to inspect other facets of his face—following the path and lines she drew with her soft, gentle fingertips across his skin. When her fingers and eyes traced over his lips, Sherlock felt himself shiver. Her eyes locked back on his, and he wondered if his own pupils were as expansive as hers.

  


Sherlock felt himself locked in that moment—a bittersweet moment of exquisite tension and uncertainty—of yearning and desire and fear. His brain took a backseat to the moment, however, as his body reacted on instinct and impulse. He felt himself drawn in closer towards Althenalextasia—seeking a refuge to the pressing need for contact, for closeness. She copied his actions, eyes still locked with his, hands still gently cupping his face, and they froze with mere millimetres separating the distance between them. The air was thick with that moment locked in time, a tangible presence that was full of promises and rewards if they’d only close the distance. With a shuddering breath, Sherlock tilted forward and his lips pressed against hers.

  


Gentle. Soft. Warm. Electrifying. Nerves tingling, neurons firing, skin ablaze. Supernova explosion of sensation. They leaned back ever-so-slightly to lock eyes again, before succumbing to the magnetic pull drawing them back together. Their kisses were gentle, chaste, before desire deepened them into a want and need for something more. They couldn’t tell who opened their mouth first, for they were in tandem as their actions were fueled by the same need. A tender caress of tongues, and a low moan escaped Sherlock’s lips from deep within his core.

Althenalextasia’s response was urgent—need possessing her as her hands cupped the back of Sherlock’s head to run her fingers through his soft, messy curls as she pressed in tighter. His scalp tingled with pleasure and the sensation lit his body in an aching blaze from head to toe. Sherlock’s hands raised from aside of him to tentatively, then more firmly, rest upon the small of her back as he pulled her in closer.

They explored each other’s mouths, sometimes gently, sometimes roughly, always fueled by an insatiable hunger and craving. As Althenalextasia’s hips involuntarily rocked forward atop his lap, they both gasped and froze. Breathing erratic. Trembling. Aching. Not enough. Need more. They pressed themselves together again, and delicious friction in their laps sent a kaleidoscope of brilliant fire blazing through their synapses.

Sherlock didn’t really know what he was doing when he stood up from the chair, holding Althenalextasia’s petite body wrapped around his, blanket falling off his shoulders to puddle at his feet—he just knew he wanted to lay them out horizontally to feel the length of his body connected against hers. She broke their kiss to shakily say, “In the hallway,” then ducked her head to explore the length of his neck.

He almost collapsed back into the chair. Where her lips met his skin, shockwaves reverberated throughout in a dizzying array of sensation, blinding his vision into obscurity. He followed his feet as urgency directed his actions, and once in the hallway, Althenalextasia whispered against his ear, “First door across the hall,” and he shivered at the contact.

Door opened, and a bed lay straight ahead. A small fireplace in the corner was already lit with purple flames. They reached the side of the bed, and Sherlock gently set Althenalextasia upon it. And then he froze. He’d never done this before. He didn’t know what was supposed to come next. Instinct only gets you so far, but what of the mechanics of it all? The intricacies, the details. His pounding heart now started to flood with uncertainty and anxiety.

Althenalextasia slowly stood up, eyes locked with his, and brought one hand up to cup his cheek. In a small voice she said, “I’ve never—I haven’t either. Not since—and not properly then either.” She then moved her hand back and brought up the other one to grasp the top button of her blouse. Her eyes questioned Sherlock’s, seeking confirmation whether she should continue or stop. Sherlock nodded once, then watched as she slowly removed each button down the length of her shirt, exposing creamy, slightly olive-toned skin beneath. When she reached the last button, Sherlock found his hands drawn forward of their own accord to gently assist in pulling the silky fabric over her shoulders and down her arms. His eyes drunk in the sight of her—the plain blue brassiere simple, yet flatteringly cut to accentuate her soft curves; her abdomen toned with evident muscles, but with a feminine softness that smoothed away any sharp edges. Her waist dipped inward, only to slope back outward towards the rounded curve of her hips. His hands directed themselves to the top button of her trousers, he slowly unzipped them, and then gently tugged them down until they piled to the floor.

Bodies reconnected, they leaned back together to lie upon the bed, Sherlock’s weight pressed against Althenalextasia. Their lips found each other’s, and the slow heat from earlier blazed anew—an inferno erupting to consume them, demanding and unrelenting.

  


The night carried them on its wings to meet the stars—a journey alight with meteoric wonderment and transcendent brilliance, culminating into an explosive eruption of astronomical vibrancy.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Descent to Hell

  


Light flared through Sherlock’s vision as his eyes snapped open. He squinted against the beam of sunlight shining through the window, illuminating the trees outside with a phosphorescent-like glow. Movement beside him drew his attention to the body entangled with his. Copper hair shimmered in the light, and two brilliant blue eyes opened to meet his gaze.

  


A shy smile graced Althenalextasia’s face as she said, “Hi.”

  


Sherlock felt a warmth blossom through his chest as his own equally shy smile mirrored hers and he rumbled, “Hello.”

  


Their innocent bubble only lasted for a beat, however, as realization dawned on them both, morphing their faces into ones of panic as they shot up out of bed and scrambled to get dressed. Althenalextasia grabbed her wand from her bedside table and with a flick, their clothes materialised on both their bodies.

  


Before Sherlock could express his upset at the time they lost, Althenalextasia intercepted his concern and told him, “We’ve only lost about 15 minutes. This is one of my time displacement rooms. When we step out, it’ll still be last night.”

  


Sherlock felt a rush of relief sweep through him and marveled for a moment at her ingenious thinking last night. He could definitely appreciate the advantages of magic and someone so clever and talented with its use.

  


“I need to charge my mobile, if it’s still capable of working after my little dip last night. Molly should have texted me with the autopsy results sometime the other day while we were at the Rubicon—it may be our best chance of a lead to find the others.”

  


Althenalextasia nodded slowly. “Sherlock, I feel worried. I never got a message back from Harry. If they’ve all been detained in some manner...Harry’s not above sticking his neck out and sacrificing himself for the sake of others. It’s kind of what he does.”

  


Sherlock’s heart thumped in his chest, “You could be describing John with that statement—those two seem to share a great many traits of character.”

  


“John would have made a great Gryffindor,” Althenalextasia said with a small smile.

  


They quickly made their way out the door and through the hallway. Althenalextasia directed them towards a room on the far end of the hall and described it as her technology room—a magic deadzone where electronics and electricity could work, though she had solar panels setup on the roof above it for an energy source. Before they stepped inside, she quickly summoned a few pieces of food to them and offered some to Sherlock. He was surprised to find himself famished, and so he quickly shoved whatever it was into his mouth and chewed while she opened the door and they scrambled in.

  


She showed him to a charging port and he quickly withdrew his phone from the pocket of his dry trousers. After plugging it in and waiting with bated breath, he gave a sigh of relief when he saw it power on. After the loading screen finally passed, his phone was suddenly bombarded with several texts. He launched his messages app and quickly scrolled through, ignoring the random messages until he found his conversation with Molly. He was distracted by another message, however, before he could click on Molly’s, and he found himself drawn to review it:

  


_Brother mine, what are you doing in Iceland?  
MH_

_Brother, no one from your group has returned from your trip to the Rubicon. Yours is the only GPS we’ve been able to track. What has happened?  
MH_

_Sherlock, please answer.  
MH_

  


Sherlock felt a pang of something unrecognizable within him. His immediate concern was that the others seemed to have gone missing as well, but he was also unaccustomed to his brother reacting so....well—it wasn’t like his brother to say ‘please.’ He found himself typing out a quick response:

  


_Brother, Rubicon was a trap. Moriarty’s behind it—he’s a magical, faked his death. Got separated from the others, but am with Althenalextasia. We’re going to look for them.  
SH_

  


Sherlock scrolled back to review Molly’s message:

_C.O.D.- Exsanguination. Tox screen neg. No sign of sexual assault. Womb was removed and replaced with a bullet casing. Casing has inscription. Pictures attached. -Molly_

  


Sherlock knew that was a taunting message for both he and Althenalextasia. Whatever Moriarty’s more vile spell had been on Althenalextasia when they were younger, it had left her damaged and incapable of reproducing. For the bullet casing, he was willing to bet it was the same one from the shot fired during Moriarty’s faked suicide. He opened the picture attachments, and flipped through to see different angles of the casing. He stopped at the snapshot of the bottom, and zoomed in to read the writing embedded in the metal— _Ficilis descensus Averno._

  


Althenalextasia read the inscription over his shoulder and murmured, “The descent to hell is easy.”

  


So Moriarty was inviting them to hell with him. But there was something more behind it...several of his messages now had a more literal meaning behind them along with the proverbial and figurative. _Avernus._

  


“Do you think he literally means Lake Avernus?” Althenalextasia asked, her thoughts having drawn the same conclusion. Sherlock smiled slightly.

  


“It would be a sound deduction,” Sherlock replied, “According to the Roman poet Virgil, the entrance to the underworld lies inside the Cave of the Cumaean Sibyl, a hole cut into the cliff that circumscribes Lake Avernus.”

  


Althenalextasia mused, “There’s a passageway through there and Baia that only magicals can access...it opens to an extensive underground city of Elysium, belonging to Cimmerian Dactyls, an ancient race of chthonic beings skilled as smiths, miners, alchemists, and healers. They have a trading post in an upper chamber of their city for magicals to buy and sell goods with them, but they never venture outside during daylight, and never invite magicals within the heart of their city. They are the guardians of the Lethe River, and keep their magic and secrets close to the chest. If Moriarty’s been frequenting there, it would explain how he’s been able to procure such large quantities of Lethe river water for his potion.”

  


As she pondered further, her eyes widened and she vibrated with excitement, “I heard a rumour during my travels through Greece that the Cimmerian Dactyls are also the keepers of another underground river that runs parallel to the Lethe...the Mnemosyne River. It is said that those who drink from it remember everything. If it were real....” She didn’t finish her thought—though Sherlock was certain it was regarding the victims of Moriarty’s potion and whether the water could be utilized in some manner towards restoring their memories—instead she shook her head and refocused on the dilemma ahead of them, “Another time. If Moriarty’s enticing us to join him in ‘hell,’ it would stand to reason that he intends for us to enter through the Grotta della Sibilla by the footpath of Lago d’Averno, where a Cimmerian Oracle of the Dead once dwelt—the same entrance Aeneas entered through in Virgil’s poem. I can’t fathom that he’d have been able to infiltrate the Dactyls’ city...it would be more likely that he means to lure us to another underground area by the lake.”

  


“Moriarty has the complete upper hand. Who knows how long he’s been planning this for. He’s blindsided us and cornered us into a position where all we can do is react and jump through his hoops,” Sherlock said in frustration.

  


“Sherlock—whatever his endgame is...please trust me to do whatever I need to, to ensure everyone’s safety,” Althenalextasia said quietly.

  


Sherlock stared at her, Merlin’s words echoing through his thoughts at her statement. He tried to deduce what implications her declaration may include, but his findings were inconclusive, and ultimately pointless, regardless. Whatever Moriarty’s final play was—it was designed to hurt. It was unlikely they would live through the coming interaction—but if their friends could survive—if they could be saved...that was a hope he could entrust Althenalextasia to do everything within her power to try to achieve—come hell or high water.

  


He nodded solemnly.

  


#### Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here

  


Muted moonlight met them as they appeared amongst the rubble and ruins of an ancient Roman bathhouse along the side of Lake Avernus; scattered clouds obscuring the celestial starlight above. Sherlock looked across the expansive body of water and felt his skin crawl with trepidation. He was resigned to the fact that his life was forfeit—whether he, himself, died or not. Entering hell was easy, returning from it would exact a price—one that would irrevocably change existence for the players in the game no matter who paid it. With no plan, no conceivable expectation of what was to follow as they journeyed forth into the ‘underworld,’ all he could do was to rely on his senses and his intellect to guide him through his reactions—and hope they were quick and cunning enough not to fail him. But he also realised he was not alone; he had Althenalextasia with him and his friends ahead. His heart constricted as he imagined that should he and Althenalextasia somehow manage to save their friends in exchange of their own lives, that John and Greg would have to suffer again through his death...for real this time. A hollow ache filled his chest at the futility of his options in the coming confrontation with Moriarty.

  


Sensing his spiraling desolation, Althenalextasia gently grasped his hand within her own and gave it a tender squeeze. Sherlock met her gaze and saw the same sense of despondent resignation reflected in her eyes, yet there also lied a steely glint of determination. He timidly raised their connected hands up to place a shy kiss upon the back of hers—her stoic expression softening slightly at the edges as a muted glow of warmth seeped through.

  


They braced themselves and set upon the paved footpath surrounding the lake. They traveled southward in silence, past a restaurant closed for the evening, as a concrete half-wall aged yellow-orange lined their path from the left. A great slab of concrete stood to the side with an inscription describing the entrance to Hades that translated to read:

  


_The cavern was profound, wide mouthed, and huge,_  
Rough underfoot, defended by dark pool   
And gloomy forest. Overhead, flying things  
Could never safely take their way, such deathly   
Exhalations rose from the black gorge  
Into the dome of heaven. 

  


A rusted iron gate interrupted the wall as they continued, yet they pressed onward passed it, the lake ever present to their right. Ferns and other vegetation climbed the hillside to their left, a wild spray of nature that descended downward to encroach over top of the wall, until there was nearly no stone left to be seen.

  


They reached a stretch of the partition made of different, older stones, barren of the overhanging foliage. They finally came to the end of the wall, whereupon the edge a faded white rectangle was painted with blackened hand-written letters reading ‘GROTTA DELLA SIBILLA’ and an arrow directed towards a skinny dirt path leading off into woodland.

  


Althenalextasia muttered “Lumos” and a glowing light illuminated from the tip of her wand.

  


The trail was littered with dead leaves. A dense barricade of trees and vines lined the way, their boughs bending overhead in a canopy to create a tunnel-like effect driven into the hillside, leading them on. Flimsy chain link wire fences bent and twisted along the sides, preventing travelers from straying from the path. Occasionally, they had to dip their heads as they passed through to avoid a low-hanging tree branch, or a line of vine snaked across the way. Darkness creeped in from all sides as the groves congested into a thick cocoon around them, the chirping of crickets their only companions.

  


The eerie atmosphere finally eased up as they came upon an outcrop of rock. Large tiles of moss-covered stone and steps receded to the entrance of the cave. An old, red, rusted iron door covered the opening, but it was left ajar, beckoning them forward into darkness.

  


Something hovered in the air before them, as though awaiting their arrival. As they crept closer, Sherlock realised it was one of Althenalextasia’s Patronus bees. That it was still corporeal did not bode well. Indeed, Althenalextasia’s face showed disconcertment at this new development. As they drew closer, the bee zoomed in erratic excitement and barreled towards them. It zipped around their heads before landing on Althenalextasia’s shoulder.

  


Sherlock waited in tense silence as Althenalextasia leaned her ear towards the bee and a high pitched buzzing commenced. Eventually, the bee’s noise dissipated, and Althenalextasia looked over to Sherlock to deliver the news.

  


“My Patronus can show us the way, but it was unsuccessful in delivering its message to Harry. It says the place he is being held in is blocking it. Sherlock, I think Moriarty created a type of magic deadzone, where we won’t be able to cast any spells.” Her tone held gravity, yet her eyes gleamed with something akin to triumph.

  


That was...neither a good thing nor a bad thing, in Sherlock’s mind. It placed them all on equal footing and though they knew not what they were walking into, both he and Althenalextasia were skilled in physical combat, at least. He nodded his understanding and invitation to continue.

  


Althenalextasia turned to step into the cave, and as she did so, the Patronus flew past and hovered in front. Each step they took further inward, the bee shot forward further to show them the way. 

  


The first few chambers were large, open tunnels with high arched ceilings; a chiseled divot cut into the side by the dirt floor in the first space, and as they progressed, ancient symbols of a cross, fish, and a palm appeared etched into the walls. By the third gallery, the Patronus directed them down a narrow passageway cut into the right wall that curved to the left and continued downward with a long stairwell carved into the rock. Sherlock counted thirty-three steps upon their descent before they reached the next landing.

  


A cistern lay in the middle of the space—a deep channel filled with clear, running water. A small wooden bridge crossed over the gap to lead across, but further ahead the walls enclosed in a dead end. Their guide, however, simply passed through the stone wall to the left of the running stream, against the current. Althenalextasia walked forward and knelt down by the water. Her hand reached out, and a small boat materialised into view. Sherlock followed her climb into the boat, and after they situated themselves, it began to move of its own accord towards the same wall the bee flew through. What he thought was solid was in fact insubstantial, for they passed right through to an expansive cavity within. Walls no longer chiseled stone, this area was rough and natural.

  


Their guide waited patiently for them to climb out on the left side, before zooming erratically forward down the end of the long hall and to the left. They trotted to keep up, slowing down only upon reaching the corridor to see a set of rudimentary stairs leading ever downward, though this one was wider. As they carefully tread the uneven surface of the steps down, the air began to feel noticeably thicker and warmer. Sherlock watched as a bead of sweat trickled down the back of Althenalextasia’s neck, and felt his own brow pool with perspiration.

  


The descent to hell, indeed. Ever downward they climbed, even when reaching a flat landing with archways on the side of the staircase, leading to chambers beyond, the Patronus continued descending on the same path. After counting three hundred thirty-three steps, they finally reached the end of the staircase, and a landing stretched out before them.

  


At the bee’s behest, they stepped forward to stand in front of an anachronistic, modern wooden door set within the rock wall before them; engraved above the door ‘ _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate_.’ The bee circled them once more, then evaporated into the ether. Sherlock met Althenalextasia’s gaze and gave a determined look of assent. With an answering nod from her, he set his hand upon the handle of the door and began to turn as she extinguished the light of her wand, casting them into Cimmerian darkness for but a brief moment until their world ignited.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Back in Black

  


The warm, ruby red glow of firelight flickered off the walls and ceiling of the sweeping cavity before them. Music echoed from all around, a loud boisterous tune that seemed specifically chosen to mock them with lines sung such as,

 _‘Forget the hearse 'cause I never die_  
_I got nine lives_  
_Cat's eyes_  
_Abusin' every one of them and running wild’_

  


“And I thought _I_ had a flair for the theatrical,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

  


A ledge stretched out ahead of them and beyond, a great chasm opened to a river of fire at its bottom; flames danced and coiled as it flowed, bouncing light and shadow around the cavern. The walls behind them gently sloped outward to meet the ledge, and a couple archways opened into blackness, the spaces within indistinguishable. While Sherlock’s mind registered each of these details in the background of his awareness, his full attention was absorbed on the body before them, dancing along to the beat of the music.

  


As the music faded out, the body said to itself, “Muggles really do make the best music,” then in a scathing rebuke towards them, “You’re both late. Do you know how many times I’ve had to play that song on repeat? Sentiment is making you _slow,_ Sherlock.”

  


Moriarty stood before them wearing his favorite suit brand in all black, his hair slicked and swept back. A manic gleam filled his shark-like eyes, as though he was desperate to devour them. He took an exaggerated inhalation through his nose, his nostrils flaring and the sound of air sucking in through the nasal passage audible. “You positively _reek_ of each other. How did you enjoy my sloppy seconds, by the way?” he winked towards Sherlock. He shook his head and his tone became reconciliatory instead. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Do over. Awww, look,” he lilted, “if it isn’t my first love and my soulmate, come to join us at last.”

  


“Where’s John?” Sherlock demanded as Moriarty parroted him in sync.

  


“Really, Sherlock. You’re so _predictable,_ ” he rolled his eyes. “Poor Greg, what of him?”

  


“If you’ve _hurt **any**_ of them,” Sherlock stressed in a low voice, “I’ll strangle you with my own hands.”

  


“Oooo oooo ooo.... _there’s_ that edge that gets me all hot-and-bothered. I was starting to think you’d lost it,” Moriarty cooed. “But I would advise against that. You see, you kill me, and this entire underground cavern caves in on all of you and becomes a crypt. With the Anti-Disapparition jinx I’ve placed on the rest of this place, it’ll collapse on you before you even make it back up the stairs.”

  


Moriarty clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels, “To be fair, you both owe me your deaths. That was rather rotten of you, Sherlock, to fake your death and then destroy what I worked so hard to build. Not that I _really_ minded—between you and me, Muggles were getting to be oh so dreadfully dull—but it’s the principle of the matter. And _you_...” he turned his oily gaze towards Althenalextasia, whom Sherlock noticed wore a lethal expression, “You defied all expectations with that little mental escapist trick of yours. I’m begrudged to admit I was impressed when I learned you were alive and thriving when I returned to the Wizarding world. At least I’ve left my mark on the both of you—more literally in some cases,” he winked at Althenalextasia.

  


Sherlock felt his blood boil and clenched his fists. He spat at Moriarty, “ _So that’s what all the cloak-and-dagger’s been for?_ A grudge you cling to so desperately to satisfy that you orchestrate such a convoluted series of events just to kill us off? You’re more pathetic than a scorned lover.”

  


Moriarty’s eyes flashed dangerously and he dipped his chin down to stare at Sherlock from beneath his lashes with his ruthless eyes. “Careful, Sherlock. Daddy doesn’t like when you interrupt him. It’s bad manners, and you’re already in a heap of trouble.” Like a light-switch, his demeanor changed direction to a more affable manner as he clapped his hands together, “Besides, I’ve magnanimously decided to make you a deal and settle for the bargain price of just one death—with stipulations, of course.

“Now, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, let’s bring out the other players in our little game of ours, shall we?” With a sweep of his arms, he directed his view towards one of the darkened archways to their right.

  


Sherlock’s stomach dropped down to his feet. Out of the darkness walked John, Harry, and Greg, their hands tied behind their backs with fine, thin ropes, each sporting various bruises, cuts, and black eyes; each wearing an expression of absolute loathing and enmity directed towards Moriarty, though their gazes shifted and softened a bit to those of concern upon view of Sherlock and Althenalextasia. But what really floored him was the sight of the familiar figure that sauntered in behind them, gun pointing towards their backs.

  


Tight burgundy suit, hair meticulously styled with sweeping arches, manicured nails painted blood red and lipstick colour to match, 120mm stiletto Christian Louboutin shoes, Irene Adler stood beside Greg as they all came to a stop. She leveled Sherlock with a salacious smirk and purred, “Hello, Sherlock.”

  


He just stared after her, lost for words.

  


“Oh look at that face! Puppies’ eyes have nothing on you,” she pouted. “It’s nothing personal, darling, merely business and self preservation. See, I scratch Moriarty’s back, and he scratches mine—quid pro quo. Moriarty guaranteed me assistance in eradicating those whom would have me killed. You may have saved me against one client wishing to behead me, but what of the others? Why stay in hiding when I can be protected and come back out to play?

“Speaking of, how do you like my handiwork,” Irene gestured towards the ropes binding their three friends. Tied the knots myself,” she winked at Sherlock. “I’d be willing to show you firsthand if you ever take me up on dinner. But I suppose you’ve finally found your lay, haven’t you?” She sighed and looked over at Althenalextasia. “Though at least I had a hand in pushing you in the right direction; the ice cave was my idea, after all—so romantic.”

  


She stepped forward to walk around Althenalextasia appraisingly and raised her eyebrows. “Finally seeing you up close...I can see what the fuss is about. And I heard of your time spent at that gentleman’s club—I’m sorry to have missed that.” She stopped in front of her and leaned in to croon in her ear, “Had I gotten to you first, I could have made you feel pleasure with the pain. Such a shame to miss that opportunity.”

  


Althenalextasia was fuming as Irene stepped back to stand along Greg, “Do you really have no empathy for those women being beaten and raped? How can you work with a man so vile and soulless?” Her gaze glared over towards Moriarty who’d been wearing a gleeful smirk since revealing Irene.

  


“Sure I do,” Irene countered. “They get beaten by arseholes, and I beat those arseholes when they have a session with me. They’re clients of mine...I’m the one who’s helping Moriarty distribute his potion. I’ve already told you the benefits of our arrangement, besides which, I’ve owed Moriarty a debt,” her gaze leveled pointedly at Sherlock, “and I always pay my debts.”

  


“What a fun reunion this has been!” Moriarty exclaimed in delight. “But now we really must be moving along; I’ve got places to go, people to kill, yada yada,” he rolled his eyes. “The terms of my offer are really quite simple and elegant.

“You both owe me your deaths. Sherlock, I want you to kill Sia by throwing her into the fire below. Oh, don’t worry, Sherlock—your time will come one day. But Althenalextasia’s time has been up for far longer than yours. She’s too pure, but you? You have a _darkness_ within you. You’re not incorruptible, you hold potential yet.

“Kill her, and the rest of you are free to go. Then you and I can begin the _real_ game; without holding back.”

  


A cacophony of noise erupted as Harry, John, and Greg protested in an uproar and collectively stepped towards Moriarty. Sherlock stood paralyzed in place, as denying disbelief short-circuited his limbic system. Moriarty gave a heaving sigh and rolled his eyes as he extracted a gun from his back pocket and in a fluid movement, shot it once towards the ceiling, immediately stopping the others’ encroachment, though they continued to stare daggers at him.

  


“Don’t be _tedious_. This is between us three,” he pointed his gun towards himself, Sherlock, and Althenalextasia, “the rest of you are just collateral.”

  


Sherlock unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth and said, “ _Those_ are your terms? I kill Althenalextasia, or we all die? Why the convolution, why not do your own dirty work?”

  


“You should feel special, Sherlock; I’ve already _soiled_ my hands in bringing all of this together,” he gestured around them, “and before you, Sia was the only one I’ve ever directly dirtied them for. As for having you commit the act...if John’s your heart, she’s your soul. What’s more poetic than casting your own _soul_ to burn in the fiery pit of hell, or Tartarus, to be exact,” he finished with a shrug.

  


Sherlock’s heart hammered and his mind raced for a solution, but every possibility lead to a dead end. He couldn’t trust Moriarty not to kill them all anyway—the lunatic was unpredictable and changeable. He didn’t know how to save them. He stole a quick glance over at Althenalextasia, but her eyes were glued to Harry’s in a silent exchange that Sherlock couldn’t decipher.

  


Moriarty’s gaze still settled on him, he drew Sherlock’s attention back, “Come on, Sherlock; I haven’t got all day. Tick tock, tick tock. I can see your mind spinning—you haven’t got any options out of this. Sia can’t spell you out, can’t Apparate you out. Neca ne neceris.”

  


“Sherlock,” a quiet voice said beside him. He looked back to see Althenalextasia staring up at him. “Sherlock, you have to do it. Whatever it takes, whatever is needed. I’m not afraid to die, and what more noble way to go than saving the ones you love?” She reached her hand up to cup his cheek and he covered it with his own.

  


**NO**. No. No no no no no. There had to be another way. How could she expect him to do such a heinous thing? How could she ask this of him? He didn’t realize his head was shaking back-and-forth until she brought up her other hand to still it.

  


“Shhh, Sherlock. Please. _Trust_ me. It’s the only way to keep you all safe.” She bore her gaze into his and he felt himself disassociating from their surroundings. Lost in a sea of numbness, he acquiesced with the smallest nod of his head.

  


They stepped forward to stand along the edge of the gaping chasm and looked down into the fiery river flowing five metres below. Flames flared and erupted upward, eagerly seeking anything they could consume within their searing blaze.

  


Sherlock felt Althenalextasia tug his arm and he looked back up at her. This was _wrong_. He should be the one to die for them. Moriarty was right, he was no saint. If he were weighed by judgment’s scales, his balance would tip heavy. But Althenalextasia—she, John, Greg, Harry—they all were light and good. They deserved to live on, to spread their light to others so that they might shine as well.

  


“Sherlock, you are worth it,” Althenalextasia said sincerely.

  


“Oh come oooonnnnn. _DO IT ALREADY,_ ” Moriarty exclaimed in annoyance.

  


Sherlock felt a wetness trickle down his face that was not from perspiration. Althenalextasia turned so that she stood facing him between he and the river. She leaned forward to give him a quick kiss on his lips, then leaned back and said, “It’s ok.”

  


She brought his hands up to rest against the front of her shoulders. His heart galloped wildly in his chest and his breathing became erratic. His hands began to tremble. He locked his eyes once more with Althenalextasia, and as he stared into the depths of her blue eyes, he felt numbness creep over him once more. With the gentlest pressure he could apply, his outstretched arms tipped forward.

  


Althenalextasia’s eyes closed as she descended, but her face never lost its expression of serenity, even as the flames engulfed her in a blinding flash of dazzling light.

  


Sherlock would have collapsed to his knees had he the chance, but Moriarty grabbed his arm and pulled him back as he clapped him on the back and let out a low whistle. “There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Oh, it was. Soooorrrryyyy,” he sang his apology with a demonic, simpering smile.

  


Before Sherlock could wind back to punch Moriarty in the face, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind and held him back. He tried to make sense of everything that was happening, but his brain was too sluggish with sentimental grief. Before him, John and Harry had somehow gotten loose from their bindings and were attacking Moriarty—John had disarmed the gun from him, sending it flying into the fire, and was trading punches while Harry assisted. Irene stood off in the distance looking thoroughly bored, and Greg...Greg was the one behind him, keeping him in place, though his grip had loosened. Sherlock didn’t even struggle, his mind too far gone to think coherently, but as John and Harry both locked Moriarty within their grips, Sherlock’s panic flared as his mind finally sprung to life and calculated the trajectory.

  


Sherlock tried to yell out John’s name and take a step forth, but it was too late. A misplaced foot and a divot in the rock floor were all it took for the three of them to tumble over the side.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

#### Rebirth

  


The cavern began to shake, rocks plummeted from the roof of the cavern, and a distant voice called out his name, but all of that was mere background noise and none of it mattered. Sherlock sank to the ground, staring transfixed at the spot that last marked John’s existence. John. John was gone. Althenalextasia and John were gone; cast into the fiery pits of this living hell—one by his own hand, even—and he was left behind to wallow in the aftermath. His chest, a hollow chasm were his heart and soul once resided, ached with an immeasurable pain that was both suffocating and numbing in its entirety.

  


Sherlock tried to dismiss the hand that lay on his shoulder, but its incessant shaking drew his attention regardless. He turned to yell at whomever dared to disrupt his boundless grief, but his voice caught in his throat as his eyes landed on the pale face of Greg, eyes tight at the corners—creating a perfect valley of wrinkles from which his tears streamed through. Sherlock could just make out Irene through the billowing clouds of dust and debris standing a couple metres behind him.

  


Sherlock’s throat tightened as Greg’s hoarse voice choked out, “Sherlock. We have to leave. This place is caving in; we’ll be buried in rubble if we don’t get out.”

  


_What did it matter?_ Sherlock wanted to ask. Didn’t Greg realize all was lost? Then again, all was not lost for Greg. Greg had children, a career, a painfully-slow-flirtation-with-his-brother-that-neither-of-them-thought-he-knew-about-but-of-course-he-did-because-he’s-Sherlock-bloody-Holmes. Greg had things to live for, and Sherlock owed it to him to ensure he lived to see them; whatever happened to Sherlock afterwards didn’t matter.

  


Chunks of the ground before him began to break away and fall into the flames of the river below. Before Sherlock could fully rise to his feet, the ground underneath him began to quiver and crack. He used the momentum of his upward movement to push Greg a couple metres back just as the rock crumbled and his own feet gave out below him.

  


Sherlock hung from his fingertips over the perilous edge of the rock face. Flames from the river lapped at his heels, reaching forth as though to ensnare him in their clutches and drag him down to burn in their heated embrace.

  


“Sherlock!!” Greg yelled. Sherlock couldn’t see him, but he hoped the man wasn’t stupid enough to stick around.

  


“Go, Greg! Get out of here! Don’t be an _idiot,_ it’s too dangerous,” Sherlock yelled back.

  


As his fingers slowly lost their strength and his grip began to slip, he found himself in a state of tranquility—wondering if there truly was an afterlife, and if so, hoping he’d done well enough in his life to be reunited with those he loved. It was while that thought crossed his mind that he imagined he could almost hear the sound of Nirvana, for the sweetest music that had ever graced his auditory system resonated from within the very core of his own being—a beautiful melody that eased his heartache and replaced it with hope instead. Unable to hold on any longer, Sherlock closed his eyes and let go, at peace with whatever was to follow.

  


His free fall lasted for 0.78 seconds before he felt himself roughly jerked to a stop as a hand grasped the back of his shirt. His eyes shot open and looked up in bafflement that quickly morphed to awed-disbelief.

  


Greg held him firmly but beyond him, a magnificent bird of vibrant red plumage flew above, its feathers shimmering with an incandescent luminance. Upon its chest, a heart-shaped tuft of feathers was split half of blue colour, and half of a deeper red. Its mighty talons clutched Greg in one, Irene in the other. The Phoenix cried its resplendent tune, and a memory jolted to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind—of a lustrous feather found in an unlikely place—and he knew. The joy that filled his heart could have burst his chest open with its enormity. A flash of blazing light ignited from the Phoenix, and the scene before them vanished from view.

  


#### Elysium

  


They reappeared along the shore of Lake Avernus, and the rising dawn brought with it a spectacular display of radiant colours painted across the sky. The lake looked ethereal in the early morning light, but nothing was so resplendent to Sherlock as what lay directly before him. John, Harry, Greg, and even Irene all stood alive and in one piece—John beamed his megawatt smile, face and body healed, and ran over to encompass him in a giant bear hug, pulling him down to his height as he did so. Sherlock freely returned the embrace without any reservation. He never thought he’d see his best friend again, and the anguish that had engulfed his heart paled in comparison to the euphoria that now lit his essence ablaze.

  


After they finally broke away, Greg took his turn for a hug, then spun around to John and Harry and exclaimed, “You blokes could have at least _told_ me! I’m getting to old for that kind of heartache, my ticker can’t keep handling that exercise in grief.”

  


John’s expression was apologetic and he opened his mouth to respond, but a single musical note chimed above them and they all looked up to see the flying Phoenix morph into a human figure as it landed. Resuming her human form, Althenalextasia turned to Sherlock and scolded, “What the _hell_ were you thinking? I didn’t expect you dumbarses to just stand there, waiting for the roof to cave in on your heads!”

  


“I did,” said John. “Told you they’d still be in that room.”

  


“I was searching all over the route we took, expecting to see you backtracking your way through. Had I known you had a death wish, I would have just popped right back in there,” Althenalextasia shook her head in aggravation. 

  


Sherlock just stared at her. Without conscious knowledge of his actions, he closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around her, lifted her up, and spun them around. His lips crushed against hers and he said between kissing her, “You. Are. Bloody. Brilliant. And. Amazing.”

  


He finally set her down and her cheeks blazed crimson, though her eyes and mouth smiled blindingly and adoringly up at him.

  


“Well it’s a relief that you are,” said Irene smoothly, “I’d have hated to think I went through all that trouble making a deal if no one was left alive that was aware of it.”

  


A commotion several metres away disrupted their conversing. As Sherlock realized the people heading towards them included his brother, a few Aurors, and the Minister of Magic, he heard Althenalextasia curse, “Shit, when did they show up?” Sherlock was certain his brother had tracked their location through the GPS in his phone, and was astonished to find he felt pleased by that for once.

  


As the group reached them, Sherlock didn’t have to be an Empath to note the stern look of reproach radiating from the Minister.

  


Althenalextasia burst forth anxiously, “Kingsley, I can explain.”

  


Kingsley’s deep voice resonated, “I hope you can, Sia. All Animagi are meant to be registered.”

  


“Yes, but...my unregistered status is what helped us survive. Had Moriarty been made privy, I wouldn’t have been able to do what it took to keep us all safe. He’d created a spell deadzone and had an Anti-Disapparition jinx around the place—but of course an Animagi’s transformation is part of their being, not a spell, and my form happens to be able to bypass Apparition jinxes. There wasn’t any other option of escape,” Althenalextasia implored.

  


The Minister leveled her with a scrutinizing look. He finally slowly asked, “Did anyone else know of your status as an Animagus?”

  


“Nope, not a single soul,” she replied.

  


Harry knew. Sherlock could see it from the minute way his face forced feigned innocence and ignorance. The pointed look he’d shared with Althenalextasia during their exchange in the cave the final tip-off. Sherlock was sure that Harry had disclosed the info to John so they could time their plans accordingly...for if Harry knew of her form, he could formulate an idea that she would need to seemingly fall into the flames first in order to rescue the rest of them. In fact, he was 98.7% certain Harry was an unregistered Animagus himself. Sherlock, for once, kept these deductions to himself.

  


The Minister continued to scrutinize Althenalextasia, but then he chuckled and shook his head. He turned to face the others gathered behind them and said, “Not a word of that information is to be shared outside this group, understood?”

  


Each and every person there nodded enthusiastically, and a couple of them even held looks of awe upon their faces as they stared at Althenalextasia.

  


“And who might this young lady be?” the Minister asked, directing his attention towards Irene.

  


Irene gave him a sensual look. “Irene Adler, sir, at your service,” she proffered her hand for him to shake. “You’ll be seeing quite a bit more of me, as it were. Mr Potter and I have a deal—I’ll be revealing everyone I sold Moriarty’s potion to in order to help apprehend the perpetrators and find potential victims, not to mention my assistance in their disposal of Moriarty, already. In exchange, I get diplomatic immunity for my involvement and deeds performed whilst working under Moriarty.”

  


The Minister’s eyebrows rose while she spoke, but Greg asked when she finished, “Yea, about all that—I don’t really understand just where exactly you stand.”

  


“What is there to understand? I’m chaotic neutral, and an opportunist,” Irene replied succinctly. “Moriarty was too dangerous an adversary to be involved with indefinitely. He took care of my prior problems, and now I’ve taken care of my remaining one.”

  


Sherlock almost had to admire the Woman’s ruthlessness—if it hadn’t almost gotten them all killed.

  


“Still,” she turned to face Sherlock and looked lustfully between him and Althenalextasia, “she’s a lucky girl, and lovely too. Should you both ever find yourselves in want of a third party, do give a call,” she purred. 

  


Sherlock gawked blankly at her until a cough caught his attention. His brother stood behind him, umbrella ever-clutched within his hands as he leaned against it.

  


“Brother,” Mycroft began in his even tone, “it’s such a...relief, to see you alive and unscathed. You do know how dreadful it would be for Mummy should anything untoward happen to you. She’d be inconsolable.”

  


Off to the side he saw Althenalextasia roll her eyes, but he ignored it. He took a step towards his brother, and in an awkward, tentative movement, reached forward to give him a small hug. Mycroft’s body jolted and stiffened slightly at the contact, but then it eased minutely and he brought his arm up to gently pat Sherlock’s back twice. The two grown men separated, and Mycroft coughed to cover his momentary bewilderment.

  


“Yes, well, I see that you may not have been entirely unscathed in your dealings with Moriarty after all—I rather fear he may have altered your personality,” came Mycroft’s deadpan reply. By the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth and the slightest crinkle by his left eye, Sherlock caught the pleased bemusement behind his brother’s remarks.

  


“He very well may have, Brother, though hopefully for the better,” Sherlock said quietly.

  


Mycroft ducked his head towards him, before turning to speak with the others in their group. Sherlock noticed Harry extracting his wand to heal Greg’s wounds, afterwards he turned and embraced Althenalextasia and the two of them engaged in excitable conversation. Mycroft ambled up to Greg, as John walked over to stand by Sherlock.

  


“Sherlock—I’m sorry. I didn’t realise, that is...I mean to say—I thought you’d pick up on the subtle happenings back there...that you’d be aware of, well, if not the entire plan—I didn’t even know exactly how we were going to pull it off—then at least be aware that we had a plan. If anyone would be, it’d be you,” John muddled out.

  


Sherlock mulled that over. In hindsight, it all was so blatantly obvious, but in the moment, he’d been to deluged with emotion to piece it all together, “It would seem Moriarty was right—sentiment is making me slow,” John’s face contorted in concern, but Sherlock continued, “yet, I can’t find it within me to mind...not when I have such capable friends I can trust to bring me up to speed.” He smiled a genuine smile at John, and John’s answering grin radiated warmth.

  


Sherlock looked back over at the others. He caught a look of expectation upon Althenalextasia’s face as she eyed speculatively over at his brother—who was bumbling about with Greg awkwardly. Exasperated by their inefficiency, Sherlock finally sighed, “Oh do _go on_ already and make a move, you two!”

  


Mycroft and Greg both startled at his outburst, and Sherlock saw a rare bloom of red colour Mycroft’s face. Harry and John gaped in surprise, but Althenalextasia beamed at him.

  


Mycroft cleared his throat, “Gregory, perhaps we should have a private chat. Would you care to join me for a stroll around the lake?” He hid his mortification well, but Sherlock still caught a glimpse of it by the way he fidgeted with his umbrella.

  


Greg’s pallour was still coloured by his blush, but he smiled amiably and nodded. The two broke away from everyone to begin their leisurely trek along the footpath.

  


Althenalextasia bit her lip to stifle a smile as she watched the two of them go. She looked over at Sherlock to wink at him, then turned to face the Minister. “Kingsley, I was wondering if you and Harry might join me for a visit to the Cimmerian Dactyls’ market in Baia while we’re in the area? I had an idea last night concerning a fabled river they are supposedly guardians of...if the rumour is true, and if they’d be willing to let us access its waters, I theorized I may be able to combine it with Phoenix tears to create a potion that can restore the memories to the victims of Moriarty’s potion,” she finished animatedly.

  


The trio broke into excited conversation over that prospect, but John interrupted Sherlock’s eavesdropping, “I’m still uncertain as to how this all came about...with Moriarty, that is. I don’t suppose anyone could ever truly understand that madman’s thinking, but how far back had he been planning all this?”

  


Sherlock had given thought to that himself, “As far as I can subject, I fathom the creation of his potion and the manner in which he utilised it was designed not only as a means for self-gratification in reliving his memory of his victimization of Althenalextasia vicariously through others, but also as bait to entice her onto the case. He likely knew it was a matter of time before the Magical community looked to combine forces with nonmagicals...and with a liaison between the Nonmagicals and Magicals who happens to have a younger brother consultive detective, it was inevitable I would eventually become involved. His was a long term play—waiting for the perfect accomplice, as found by Irene, that he could tie-in to our mutual past to provide the clues to lead us on his trail.

“I imagine he had to retain flexibility in his schemes once it became apparent that Althenalextasia and I grew such a bond between us as we have. That, or having experienced firsthand the charming appeal of Althenalextasia in their youth, he supposed it would naturally follow I would feel the same towards her—in which case he merely had to pull a few strings to manipulate us closer in a shorter period of time,” he mused. “Regardless, the end result is the same—I find myself surprisingly grateful for his actions, as he unwittingly did me a favour by introducing Althenalextasia into my life.”

  


Though John’s face had cycled through a myriad of expressions as Sherlock divulged his deductions, he ultimately rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and settled on an impish, Cheshire grin by the end.

  


“Sherlock, John! Would you two like to join us for our visit to Baia? I promise it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Althenalextasia beamed with a sparkle of challenge in her eyes.

  


“It would be my pleasure to accompany you,” Sherlock gave her a slight, gentlemanly bow and offered her his arm. She hooked hers into his with a grin.

  


“Onto the next great adventure, then,” John clapped and rubbed his hands together.

  


Sherlock offered his free hand to John, and together the group Disapparated to the previously unexplored Cimmerian city of Elysium in search of mythical waters.


	24. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter nor Sherlock Holmes; I’m merely playing within the exquisite universes created by their respective owners and expanding upon them. Original characters are mine, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

As John vacated the Tube on his way home from the clinic, he cinched his leather jacket shut tighter against the chilly wind. Temperatures were rapidly plummeting now that Autumn had arrived, and the shift almost left him missing the sticky heat of their unseasonably hot, humid summer…almost. Then again, if it got to be too cold, he could always take the Floo to visit somewhere warm. Thankfully, he never had to worry about the ache in his shoulder ever acting up again…that made the cold, damp weather a little more bearable.

  


Darn, he sure was starving. He wondered if Sherlock would be home that night, and if so, if he’d be interested in ordering some take-out. He still had a hard time believing that Sherlock was more willing to eat regularly if the food came from the magical community…particularly from The Leaky Cauldron. It was a fortunate thing they offered owl-delivery service for their food, and that Sia had taken to letting Archimedes live with them–she visited often enough that Archie never had the chance to miss her. Although, that may have been a strategic move on her part…she was as invested in Sherlock’s health as John was, and they often conspired together to tag-team against Sherlock. She’d even given John a stockpile of a sleeping draught for him to be able to slip into Sherlock’s tea when he went too long without sleep. Sherlock most likely knew when he was doing so, of course, but he never fussed whenever John utilised it.

  


Ah, Baker Street. Almost home. John picked up his pace, his stomach hastily guiding him forward in eager anticipation. He bent down to pick up the mail on his way through the downstair’s door. As he climbed the seventeen steps to reach the second floor, he heard a shattering crash from inside, and gave a weary sigh as he opened the door.

  


Sherlock sat in his leather seat looking like a bizarre hybrid between a sleek panther and a hulking vulture—for even with all his lithe, limber appendages arched in graceful bends upon itself, he was perched rather birdlike in his seat with his feet propped underneath him. Next to his chair on top of an end table stood a pile of new, uniform dishes a dozen high. He was picking them up, one at a time, and throwing them at the same spot upon the wall, one after the other.

  


“Sherlock…while I’m impressed by your consistent aim…what on earth are you doing? What did the dishes do to offend you?”

  


“I’m bored, John. I’m experimenting to test the variance in breaking pattern of the dishes, keeping as many factors the same as I can,” Sherlock merely replied with a shrug.

  


“Better clean that up when you’re done.”

  


“Better yet, Althenalextasia can repair them all when she’s here next.”

  


“Sherlock, how can you possibly be bored? You’re dating a witch who can do magic. Go ring her up and have her entertain you or something…show you some new spell you haven’t already seen—if you haven’t already insisted she show you her entire arsenal alphabetically; or have her let you help with brewing a potion—you always enjoy that.”

  


“I can’t, John, she’s busy tracking down several more victims from the confessions of Irene’s buyers.”

  


“Well, then why don’t you help her out with that? How’s the memory reviving potion coming along, by the way?” John asked while sorting the mail.

  


“Oh, Althenalextasia finished that weeks ago. They’ve already administered the potion to the victims at her shelter, and were able to find a benign trauma therapist to assist them with counseling. In fact, Greg and my brother have already been able to corroborate or otherwise fabricate evidence to arrest and properly detain the attackers of the original group of victims.

“As for helping to track down the remaining victims…I must say, John—while I grasp the intrinsic appeal of helping all those people, all that legwork is rather tedious. I can see why my brother prefers minions to do his bidding. Perhaps I should look into obtaining some of my own,” he mused.

  


John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he set down the mail. “Sherlock, no. You can’t just get ‘minions.’ It doesn’t work that way. Listen, why don’t you get out of the house…visit some magical village. We’ve got the advantage of instantaneous travel right through this very room, and you’re cooped up throwing dishes like an irate lunatic.”

  


“It’s not as much fun without Althenalextasia; her knowledge of hidden gems within different areas of the community is more worthwhile than anything I can find on my own, without magic to aid me,” Sherlock replied sullenly.

  


John just shook his head in defeat and said, “Well I’m famished; my stomach’s been leading me home since I first stepped on the Tube. I was thinking of ordering from The Leaky Cauldron; would you like anything?”

  


“Ah…that’ll be a problem. I currently have Archimedes flying to Sussex and back with a package.”

  


“Who are you sending mail to in Sussex?”

  


“No one. I’ve been timing his flights, adjusting the weight of his load incrementally each trip in order to calculate an average time for his flights based on weight of deliverable and an increase in wind speed. We’ve already run this test the other day when the air was still, and thus far today, the timing of his flights increase congruently with added weight as they did without wind, yet he is also consistently 1.2% slower today with each trip. I hypothesize his flight will slow down significantly further as more weight is added to his load as the wind should create more resistance against the weight, making it more difficult to navigate. Once I’ve collected all the data, I should be able to create a formula to calculate down to the minute the amount of time it will take him to fly to various points across Europe and under various windspeed conditions.”

  


“Dear God, why must you torment the poor bugger?”

  


“I’ll have you know that he was a willing participant and eager for the challenge! Archimedes adores me. Rosie, on the other hand, abhors me.”

  


John could feel the blood draining from his face. “What did you do to piss off a dragon?!”

  


“I didn’t _do_ anything, John. It’s merely part of her territorial nature that she would be protective of Althenalextasia and distrust anyone who’d encroach on her keeper.”

  


“Yea, well, tread lightly there. That’s one protective charge whose threats of bodily harm you should take seriously.”

  


“Oh, I doubt she’d seriously maim me in any fashion…she merely singes the edge of my coat or the ends of my hair with a particularly heated exhalation of air directed towards myself on occasion. But I think the more I visit there, the more she’s coming around to tolerating me.”

  


John merely cupped his forehead and shook his head in exasperation. “Right, well I’m still hungry, so I’m going to kip down to Speedy’s to grab a sandwich; I don’t think I can wait for Archie to return. Join me if you want, or keep throwing plates if you’re that bored, just mind that Mrs Hudson doesn’t come up and yell at you.”

  


The sound of a door slamming shut and feet quickly stomping up the stairs almost had John bite his tongue at the uncanny coincidence of his statement, but he didn’t need to be Sherlock to note that although Mrs Hudson moved around a lot easier without her hip problem anymore, she still didn’t move _that_ fast.

  


“Impossible, John; Mrs Hudson is currently out at Tesco’s. It would appear we have a guest…a member of the magical community, if I’m not mistaken, as Mrs Hudson always locks the front door when she leaves and I heard no sounds of a break-in. My evening might just be picking up.”

  


John’s eyes widened at the possibility as a frantic knocking pounded upon their door. He noticed from the corner of his eye Sherlock adjust his position in his chair to that of his thinking pose while he strode forward to open the door. The pounding persisted even as he swung the door open, and the visitor was left with their fist still lifted in the air. Thankfully, they managed to stop from swinging forward and smacking John in the face—he really didn’t fancy reflexively decking a magical, especially not one as haggard and ancient-looking as this.

  


John finally found the perfect example for the word tatterdemalion, for before him stood a bedraggled old man—face wrinkled, weathered, and littered with age spots; long hair and beard matted and soiled with dirt; layers of clothes with a long, sweeping overcoat on top all tattered and torn. And though the old man had just run up a flight of stairs, his eyes were alert with a penetrating gaze and his breathing was far too even any man his age had the right to exert. John marveled for a moment at their guest’s vitality, and though he found that a bit odd, his manners took over and he welcomed the stranger.

  


“Errr, hello. I’m Doctor John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. Come on in; how may we help you?” He stepped aside and gestured for the man to enter.

  


“Yes, yes, John, we can skip the pleasantries—we’ve all already met,” Sherlock said flippantly and leaned back in his chair. “Engelhardt from the Auror Department, correct? Judging by your choice of disguise, you’ve been working undercover still on the endeavor Harry assigned to you months ago. I presume you’ve come across an imperative bit of information, yet I cannot infer as to why you are here, rather than reporting to Mr Potter. Would you care to enlighten us?”

  


Engelhardt shook his head and chuckled as he stepped forward into the room, and as he did so, his features began to shift—his skin smoothed and became taught with youth, spots cleared up, his dirty-blonde hair and beard shifted to dark brown and began to shorten in length, and his nose straightened. John blinked twice as the young man from the Auror debriefing a few months prior became recognizable again.

  


“That wasn’t Polyjuice Potion,” John stated. “You’re a—a whatchacallit...a Metamorph...”

  


“Metamorphmagus, John,” Sherlock interrupted, “do keep up.” John rolled his eyes.

  


Engelhardt smiled and winked. “That I am—which is why I get the fun undercover assignments. I’m here because Harry and Sia suggested I come here to get you before we all meet back at the office later. They’ve located another victim and are currently involved in retrieval ops. But I’ve found another accomplice of Moriarty’s—a muggle accomplice who was working on other dealings for him. Tell me, does the name ‘Sebastian Moran’ mean anything to you?” he asked Sherlock.

  


John’s heart jolted as he recognised the name himself, whilst Sherlock shot forward in his chair and jumped to his feet, knocking the table and remaining plates to the ground with a great clatter as he did so.

“Sebastian Moran is meant to be dead,” he said in a rush, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head to pierce Engelhardt with a scrutinizing look. “He was my last and most important target to eliminate from Moriarty’s inner circle. A former Colonel dishonorably discharged turned mercenary—he was the assassin assigned to kill John had I not committed suicide,” his clipped, enunciated words died off to a murmur with that last admittance. John felt his throat tighten at the look of pain and trepidation upon Sherlock’s face.

“I planted the bomb myself in that building. I saw him go inside. _No one_ could have survived that blast. Unless...” Sherlock’s eyes took on a faraway look as he processed the information before him. His brusque tone returned as he continued, “Well, obviously Moriarty knew of my plans and acted accordingly to save his right-hand man. Come, John, we have much to do.” He strode towards the door to yank his coat and scarf from the hanger. “Though I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for us to make a quick stop at the café below, Engelhardt—my blogger needs sustenance.”

  


With a grateful smile, John hurried to follow his best friend on their next grand adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve made it this far, you’re a saint! Thank you so kindly for devoting your time to read through my story; I hope it was enjoyable!


	25. Post-Epilogue // Excerpt from Sequel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still own jack squat, except original character.
> 
> Soooo, I’ve had baby plot bunnies begin to hop around in my brain while I’ve been posting chapters from the first story. I’ve managed to write a little bit, but given time constraints, I don’t believe I’ll have the opportunity to work on it consistently, so it may be quite a while until it’s posted. I did write the first chapter, however, and thought I’d add it along to the end of this story as a teaser. With the first half of Illuminans Occultus being heavy in setup, I’m envisioning lots of action and adventure for the next one, which is both an exciting and daunting task to embark on.
> 
> For Johnlock shippers, I’m pleased to inform you that I plan to direct the next installment in that direction. I’m happy with the way Illuminans Occultus unfolded and feel it went as it was meant to, but my heart still pines for Johnlock as I believe they are an inevitable pairing.
> 
>  
> 
> ####################

“Happy New Year, John, Althenalextasia.” Sherlock raised his glass and they followed suit to express their tidings and clink their glasses together.

  


John was sat across from his two favorite people in a dingy, but warm pub by the base of a mountain in Liechtenstein. He was imminently grateful that they’d taken a break from their latest case to relax, unwind, and celebrate the coming year. Their excursions this time around were taking far longer to execute even _with_ magic on their side, for the leads on their nonmagical foe were few-and-far between. John was just relieved Sherlock wasn’t trying this trek again on his own…and that he didn’t have to fake his death to do so either.

  


He took another sip of his stiff drink and felt the warmth of it spread down to his belly. That warmth matched his smile as he watched his best friend, with body pressed up tight against his girlfriend, kiss her temple sweetly while they shared a private moment between themselves. He was so happy Sherlock finally found something he hadn’t even known he was looking for. To finally see Sherlock open another facet within himself after all the years they’d known each other—to see the ways he continued to grow, even after merely a half-year with Sia in their lives—was such a beautiful journey to be a part of and bear witness to. He’d forever be grateful to fate, the cosmos, whomever it was that set then on this path.

  


His eyes wandered back to the other patrons of the bar, yet inevitably landed again on a particular someone who had caught his eye earlier that eve. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he thought, _if only he were younger…_

  


“Oh go over and make a move already, John. You haven’t been with anyone since—well, in far too long a time. Live a little. Althenalextasia and I will be your wingwoman and wingman.” Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with mirth at the private joke.

  


John blushed and chortled into his glass as he was about to take another swig of his drink, but mumbled, “We’re in the middle of a case in an entirely different country. I’m getting too old for one-night stands. _‘Three Continents Watson’_ has retired. Just appreciating the view.” He smiled ruefully and his eyes darted back to the corner of the room.

  


Sia’s gaze followed to see whom he was checking out and she laughed. “I don’t know, John; I’m with Sherlock on this one. That guy’s quite a…I think the kids nowadays call it ‘snacc.’”

  


John quirked his head in agreement and chuckled, “That he is.”

  


Sherlock looked utterly bewildered and turned to look at the group in the corner and back at them. “He, not she? You’re not gay.”

  


John looked at Sherlock like he stated the most obvious of all the obvious statements. “Yeah, good deduction, that. I’m an equal opportunity lover,” he grinned mischievously, “otherwise referred to as Bisexual. You know that, Sherlock.” He shot Sherlock a curious look before laughing again and turning to Sia to say, “God, you should have seen the first night we met. We went to dinner—of course Sherlock didn’t eat a bite—but I was making such a fool of myself fawning all over him. He was actually very tactful in turning me down that night, and never let my attraction to him make things awkward between us or affect our friendship negatively. Though I swear he deliberately flaunted it in my face sometimes!” He giggled. “Took me a long while, but I finally let those feelings subside. Can’t really complain either—now I’ve got the best friend I’ve ever had and we’ve got you brought into the fold.” He flashed his trademark megawattt smile as his genuine joy expressed itself.

  


Sherlock’s expression was frozen in-place with lips ever-so-slightly puckered and his eyebrows infinitesimally raised. Sia had been leaning forward over the table, her elbows resting on the surface with the side of her right hand covering her mouth, looking back-and-forth between the two of them. The silence dragged on for a beat and John started to feel confused by the lack of response before Sherlock slowly rose from his seat and gave a strained smile, saying, “Excuse me, I need to find the lavatory.” He glided away looking to be in a daze. 

  


John and Sia’s gaze followed him until he was out of sight, John’s eyebrows scrunched in bewilderment, Sia’s expression neutral save for the divot of concern crinkling the center of her brow. 

  


John coughed awkwardly and asked, “Was it something I said?”

  


Sia met his gaze and lowered her hand from her mouth, a slight frown upon her face. She looked down to the table, took a deep breath, and looked back up to say, “He never knew, John. For all his observational abilities, he never deduced your feelings for him.”

  


John’s face sunk into an expression of dawning horror at what he just revealed. “Oh god. Oh god, I didn’t just ruin our friendship, did I? How could he not have known? I thought all that time he was just being abnormally kind in sparing my feelings—well, that right there should have been the _obvious fucking clue_. Sherlock didn’t do kind—not in the beginning. God, I’m such an _idiot,_ ” he moaned as his head sunk into his hands. He jerked his head back up, “Fuck. I really hope he doesn’t feel awkward around me knowing that now. I accepted he didn’t feel the same and put those feelings to rest a long time ago. I don’t want him to tip-toe around me now for fear of upsetting me or, jeez—fear of me leering at him when he’s not looking.” Panic was writ all-over his face as he contemplated the ramifications of his revelation.

  


Sia grabbed his hands from across the table to rub soothing circles with her thumbs while he calmed his anxiety. Her face was strained with sympathetic sadness. “No, John, you misunderstand. Sherlock—” she stopped and took another steadying breath. “I don’t think it’s my place to say, but he’s always had an undercurrent of similar feelings towards you. You both have been carrying a torch for each other all this time, and both of you assumed the other never felt the same way. Hell, _I_ assumed you’d both had a discussion about things years ago and decided not to pursue anything...I’ve seen similar chemistry and emotional signatures between others where those types of feelings existed subconsciously but were never acted upon, rather, they fueled the connection and cemented the bonds between them. Harry and Hermione being a prime example. Their friendship is similarly as solid and robust as yours and Sherlock’s, and they each found fulfilling, loving relationships with their partners. But had the Weasley family never existed…they very well may have developed a romantic relationship between themselves—the underlying attraction and potential is there.

“Right now, Sherlock is feeling overwhelmed by those feelings for you he long ago buried, as I think he was certain they never were and never would be reciprocated,” she finished her explanation with a small, hollow smile.

  


John’s heart thumped in his chest as he reflected on everything she said. He was feeling overwhelmed himself. A cascade of emotions rebounded over each other throughout his body in such rapid succession, he couldn’t properly process them all. He took a deep breath mindful of Sia’s soothing grasp of his hands and tried to sort through them all as his gaze became unfocused around him while he centered his attention within.

  


Shock, of course, was the predominant emotion he felt. Shock that he’d been so wrong all this time and that Sherlock had no clue of John’s amorous feelings towards him in the beginning of their partnership—and of course shock that Sherlock had reciprocated those feelings all along. The knowledge painted their entire history in a whole new light—but he’d think through that later. Right now he needed to sort through and get a grip on his present feelings.

  


Awe. Awe and wonderment that a man as brilliant and intriguing as Sherlock had actually deemed him worthy of his affections. Regret at their misassumptions—to think of what could have been had they ever acted upon their mutual attraction. Sorrow that they missed their opportunity and would likely never know. And yet…and yet there was something else buried deeply within the tidal wave of his swirling emotions. Something that whispered so quietly to his psyche, he strained to hear it. He closed his eyes and evened his breathing to focus on what it was.

  


Hope. Beneath it all, a tiny spark of hope had blossomed in his heart. He held his breath, barely daring to breath upon it lest it wither under his scrutiny, yet he realized that spark was a smoldering ember…something that had always been with him and had never truly burned out after all this time. He felt a jolt of fear and was tempted to snuff it out to avoid getting burned should it erupt into a raging inferno, but he couldn’t if he’d tried. That ember had fueled his warmth, even through the darkest and coldest of winters without Sherlock in his life. It was a part of him that had always kept him persevering through life, one foot after the other. And though he didn’t intend for it to grow any larger where his feelings towards Sherlock were concerned, he couldn’t control the small flame that emanated forth of its own accord. He daren’t let his mind even begin to consider “what-ifs,” but as he sat there examining the feeling of that shimmering beacon of hope, he felt his body hum and glow with a warmth of possibility.

  


_GUILT._ John’s eyes snapped open with a jolt as it came crashing over him. Sia’s thumbs were still rubbing over the back of his hands. Her eyes held so much depth of emotion within them, but were completely lacking what he was expecting to see. There was no anger, no accusations nor fear nor jealously nor hurt. The empath’s eyes shone with understanding, with sympathy, compassion, acceptance, and shared joy and hope for John. Only the corners of her eyes belied her own internal feelings for herself…of sadness and loss.

  


_BLOODY BUGGERING HELL,_ John felt like such a fuckup!

  


 

  


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“John, please, it’s okay,” Sia implored.

  


“It’s not okay, Sia!” he exclaimed. “Christ, I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. If I’d just kept my mouth shut...”

  


“Listen to me, John Hamish Watson,” Sia spoke sternly, yanking his hands forcefully towards herself to capture his attention. “Remember when I explained to Sherlock the concept of _Amor Fati??_ We don’t always know why things happen the way they do, but we shouldn’t waste time worrying over it. Embrace it as the next stepping stone of our journeys, wherever they may lead.”

  


John hung his head wearily and replied, “But that’s just it...where _do_ we go from here? You and Sherlock are happy together—I didn’t mean to destroy that. Even if nothing changes, you’ll both always know how he felt in reaction to tonight’s conversation.”

  


“Firstly,” Sia spoke soothingly, “love isn’t a limited resource. Love is infinite. It grows and expands and makes room and forges a new path when it runs into barricades. Sherlock’s expanding love for you doesn’t diminish his love for me. He’s always loved you in a multitude of ways...now he just has the opportunity to explore a new avenue for it.” He looked up to meet her eyes and saw a genuine smile as warm and soft as her tone of voice.

  


_Love? Sherlock loves him?_

  


Sia narrowed her eyes slightly upon sensing his disbelief but didn’t remark upon it as she continued, “Secondly, what do you mean, _‘even if nothing changes?’_ Of course everything’s changed...you can’t just learn that you and your closest friend have been blessed with the chance to pursue your heart’s desire and not go after it. I’ll not stand for it.” The corner of her eyes crinkled in amusement.

  


John just stared at her gobsmacked and at a loss for words. “But what about you, Sia? What about your feelings, your wants and desires? How is it fair to you to give up what you want to see the man you love connect with another—if he ever were to, that is.”

  


Sia’s face took on a melancholic countenance but she replied, “ _Amor Fati,_ John. And how can I stand in the way of you and Sherlock, if it could bring you both greater joy and love than where our current paths lead us to? I may lose one route of love with Sherlock should you both take that step together, but that merely gives me an opportunity for love to grow through a different avenue with you both.”

  


John’s head was spinning. He still couldn’t reconcile everything she was saying with his tsunami of emotions tumbling within. Guilt was still strongly riding the tide, inhibiting him from comprehending how Sia could possibly be absorbing these changes so well. He still wasn’t even sure if anything did, in fact, change between he and Sherlock. Unintended revelations of long-buried amorous feelings did not constitute direct declarations of intent. A thought formed and took root that perhaps they should all discuss things together, to figure out a game-plan on how they should proceed. Sherlock would probably try to refuse, especially given the timing with them in the middle of their case chasing after Moran, but it’d at least be better for everyone involved if they grabbed the bull by the horns and discussed everything openly for the rest of the evening and stated expectations or the lack there-of.

  


Feeling more confident at least with his decision, he realised Sherlock still hadn’t returned from the loo. His brow crinkled in consternation as he tried to gauge how much time had passed since he’d left. He checked the time on his mobile, and guessed perhaps a solid twenty minutes had slipped by.

  


“I think we should all discuss this tonight, just to clear the air and all,” he told Sia. She nodded in agreement. “I’m going to go check on Sherlock—I’m worried he’s had a malfunction, especially since he didn’t have you to help guide him through his emotions like I did,” he gave her a grateful smile.

  


He lifted himself from his seat and strolled to the corner where the bathrooms were located, past the eye candy he’d been ogling earlier that night—though the man didn’t even register on his radar now that he had more pressing concerns on his mind. John stepped into the gent’s bathroom to find a small, cramped room with a single urinal and a single stall, door cracked open and visibly vacant. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

  


John didn’t know whether to feel panicked or annoyed. He supposed the correct answer lie in why Sherlock was missing. Had he ditched them because he couldn’t process his emotions?— _annoyed_ (although sympathetically so). Had he been kidnapped?— _panicked_. Well, he may not be as good at observing clues as Sherlock, but he could at least tell there hadn’t been any kind of struggle within the bathroom to indicate foul play. He double-checked within the stall to confirm, and stepped back into the bar upon finding nothing.

  


He looked around the pub from where he stood for any sight of the familiar mop of raven curls, but Sherlock was most definitely not around. He walked to check an entryway a few metres by the restrooms and saw a hallway lined with a couple trash bins that led to a back door. An idea suddenly sprung to his head, and he was certain he was right—Sherlock probably bummed a fag from one of the fellow patrons and snuck out for a smoke.

  


John sighed in fond exasperation and shook his head as made his way to the exit. He silently cursed and wished he’d grabbed his jacket as he cracked the door open and rivulets of snow billowed through. He braced himself for the cold and pushed the door fully open against the wind.

  


The sight before him left his blood running colder than the temperature outside.


End file.
